Erudite
By: Ilana Goldman
Ambiguous, adjective; open to or having several possible meanings or interpretations.
I’ve always wondered why one, two, and four get to be homophones, but not three. Maybe that’s why it makes itself so hard to multiply; my feelings would be hurt too if I didn’t get a second meaning. Even the word second gets a second meaning! I guess that would be a homonym, though. What do you think?
I say all of this and Daddy looks at me the way I look at broccoli.
“A homophone is a variationable word,” I explain matter-of-factly, flipping through the crumpled dictionary pages. “Variationable can be defined as—” but he’s already disappeared into our apartment by the time I look up again. The old-as-dirt book is heavy in my lap, its weight begging for more attention, though I’ve already gone front to cover more times than I can count on one hand.
You may think that reading a dictionary is strange, that a boy my age should be more concerned with video games or baseball, and to that I say ha! … Because I would dump the hunk of junk if Mom and me weren’t flat broke. Even the book itself was from my dad, the first and last gift he’s ever gotten me. I might’ve preferred he gave me a twenty-cent bracelet or old pair of gloves. Or chickenpox.
Ostracize, verb; to exclude somebody from a society or group.
This word is one of my favorites, a tear already invading the page’s corner where the long-time dog ear folds. My dad told me not to bookmark it this way, but he also said not to speak to strangers, and Mom lets them into our house all the time. She never lets me follow either, ordering that I wait outside.
Alone.
On the pavement.
With the dictionary.
At least I know about it, though; my dad had turned a funny sort of color when he found out. Not funny good, but funny-I’m-gonna-zoom-away-for-a-long-time-and-leave-my-son-here. That was a while ago, wasn’t it? She still cries about it sometimes. I miss him too, I think.
Oh cool, a motorcycle!
The shiny thing revs a few times as the driver takes off his helmet, that other stranger from before now leaving our apartment building. A few buttons on his shirt are missing.
Daddy’s appearances are so random, I think; sometimes he’s a small guy in khakis, others a big burly dude with more hair on his face than his head. At the moment, he’s a towering man in leather that slaps my hand away from his polished ride. He tells me to beat it or I’ll be in a heck of a lot of trouble, though instead of heck, he says the H-E-double-hockey-sticks word. Daddy talks like this a lot—all of them do—but never my dad, no matter how messed up our lives had gotten.
I wish he’d stayed.
The motorcyclist goes to where my mom waits past the thin walls of our home and I continue through the dictionary, faster now, not wanting to hear what comes after. The peeling surface starts to rattle with something rotten, an awful feeling on my back. Bad, yes, but we’d eat good food for the next few days, roast beef and fresh bread and not broccoli.
So I hug my knees and close my eyes, cup my ears then wait.
Bitch, noun; a female dog, wolf, fox, or otter.
I usually keep myself from telling them that Mom is none of these things, knowing it wouldn’t stop all the men from saying it anyways. Maybe it’s another one of those ambiguous words. It doesn’t really matter to me, so long as they keep bringing their money.
Mom at last calls me inside, her voice tired.
Whore, noun; a prostitute.
I’ve always wondered why one, two, and four get to be homophones, but not three. Maybe that’s why it makes itself so hard to multiply; my feelings would be hurt too if I didn’t get a second meaning. Even the word second gets a second meaning! I guess that would be a homonym, though. What do you think?
I say all of this and Daddy looks at me the way I look at broccoli.
“A homophone is a variationable word,” I explain matter-of-factly, flipping through the crumpled dictionary pages. “Variationable can be defined as—” but he’s already disappeared into our apartment by the time I look up again. The old-as-dirt book is heavy in my lap, its weight begging for more attention, though I’ve already gone front to cover more times than I can count on one hand.
You may think that reading a dictionary is strange, that a boy my age should be more concerned with video games or baseball, and to that I say ha! … Because I would dump the hunk of junk if Mom and me weren’t flat broke. Even the book itself was from my dad, the first and last gift he’s ever gotten me. I might’ve preferred he gave me a twenty-cent bracelet or old pair of gloves. Or chickenpox.
Ostracize, verb; to exclude somebody from a society or group.
This word is one of my favorites, a tear already invading the page’s corner where the long-time dog ear folds. My dad told me not to bookmark it this way, but he also said not to speak to strangers, and Mom lets them into our house all the time. She never lets me follow either, ordering that I wait outside.
Alone.
On the pavement.
With the dictionary.
At least I know about it, though; my dad had turned a funny sort of color when he found out. Not funny good, but funny-I’m-gonna-zoom-away-for-a-long-time-and-leave-my-son-here. That was a while ago, wasn’t it? She still cries about it sometimes. I miss him too, I think.
Oh cool, a motorcycle!
The shiny thing revs a few times as the driver takes off his helmet, that other stranger from before now leaving our apartment building. A few buttons on his shirt are missing.
Daddy’s appearances are so random, I think; sometimes he’s a small guy in khakis, others a big burly dude with more hair on his face than his head. At the moment, he’s a towering man in leather that slaps my hand away from his polished ride. He tells me to beat it or I’ll be in a heck of a lot of trouble, though instead of heck, he says the H-E-double-hockey-sticks word. Daddy talks like this a lot—all of them do—but never my dad, no matter how messed up our lives had gotten.
I wish he’d stayed.
The motorcyclist goes to where my mom waits past the thin walls of our home and I continue through the dictionary, faster now, not wanting to hear what comes after. The peeling surface starts to rattle with something rotten, an awful feeling on my back. Bad, yes, but we’d eat good food for the next few days, roast beef and fresh bread and not broccoli.
So I hug my knees and close my eyes, cup my ears then wait.
Bitch, noun; a female dog, wolf, fox, or otter.
I usually keep myself from telling them that Mom is none of these things, knowing it wouldn’t stop all the men from saying it anyways. Maybe it’s another one of those ambiguous words. It doesn’t really matter to me, so long as they keep bringing their money.
Mom at last calls me inside, her voice tired.
Whore, noun; a prostitute.
Writer's Statement: I’d like to say that the prospect of being an author is one I always accepted and was willing to pursue, however, this is far from the truth. It was when I hit fifth grade that the concept of writing really occurred to me, brought on by the fantastic and sometimes terrifying Mr. Hrynyk who taught us to show, don’t tell. Enjoy.