I was speaking to a colleague the other day about communication with English language learners and she whispered something to me that struck a chord: “We don’t know how people understand what we say … nobody really tells us: so, it’s important that we be culturally-sensitive and peaceful arbiters as we communicate knowledge.”

It’s not an exact quote, but this was the gist of her thought.

My friend was not pointing to “what we say” as educators, but rather “how what we say is processed” by the culturally-diverse adult learners that we encounter everyday.

Experience has taught me that a single, culturally-charged word uttered at the wrong time has the ability to spark a firestorm in a classroom in the same way that a well-chosen, well-placed one has the power to convert an enemy into an ally and friend.  The shadows associated with the words that we use as educators can be the treacherous part of teaching ESL.

The power that words have is nothing short of remarkable.

Let’s consider the adjective, “crazy”. Isn’t the word “crazy” negative and offensive?  Yes, but when it is used to refer to how one feels about a spouse or a sweetheart, (I’m crazy about you) it carries a positive connotation.  Doesn’t the adverb “gravely” mean very serious or bad?  Yes, it usually does –  except when it modifies a verb like “concerned”. Then, the adverb can also mean “genuinely” or “profoundly”.

My encounter with the power of words started as a teenager.

I made the decision one year to travel to Florence alone, by train – against the advice given to me by my Italian relatives. I caught wind of a once-in-a-lifetime exhibit at the Uffizi Gallery about Florence’s ruthless 15^th century despot, Lorenzo de Medici. Because I was interested in Italian political history at the time, nothing could stop me from getting on that train.

Being young and inexperienced, I thought I could learn more about how the leader earned the title: “Lorenzo, The Magnificent” if I actually stood where he once stood and if I tried to decipher the meaning of some of his authentic manuscripts secured behind the plexiglass cubicles.  I’m not quite sure if I got that right, but the experience will remain lodged in my mind forever.

It turns out that Lorenzo was a tyrant and a poet – a lover of power and of prose. Words were his strength, even though he came from a long line of commercial bankers.

If my memory serves me correctly, it was just a few misplaced words that put Lorenzo de Medici on a collision course with Sixtus IV, the Pope at the time, and then a few well-chosen words (and flamboyant generosity) that transformed King Ferdinand I of Naples from his foe into his friend.

The Italian statesman used his words to broker the “Mother” of all peace negotiations with some strange political bedfellows: Lorenzo established peace with a Pope who despised him so much that he plotted to kill him, and with a tangle of rival ruling dynasties who caused nothing but bloodshed and political chaos on the peninsula.

The Italian statesman used the power of the written and spoken word coupled with some bold strategic and military initiatives to stickhandle his way through some very treacherous domestic situations for the sake of the peace and security of Florence.

Lorenzo proved, against all odds, that peace could be forged – and sustained – under the most difficult of circumstances.

What made Lorenzo “magnificent”?

As I see it, the answer is entrenched in his deep understanding of how his words would be received and processed in his pursuit of peace.