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Tommy Druen: Words matter Previous Column: Literacy was a treasure for Clem Coomer By Tommy Druen When the United States entered World War II, it quickly became clear that winning wouldn't depend solely on firepower. It would require something far more subtle: secrecy. Our military faced a critical vulnerability--not in troops or equipment, but in language. The Axis powers had proven themselves adept at intercepting communications and cracking codes. It is often said that knowledge is power, but in warfare, information means survival. Allied encryption methods were too slow. Codes were too fragile. What we needed wasn't just security--it was speed and secrecy rolled into one. The War Department knew it had to try something radically different. Fortunately, America had an asset our adversaries did not--our Indigenous peoples. In 1942, the Marine Corps recruited twenty-nine young Navajo men, fluent in their native tongue, and tasked them with creating an unbreakable code based on their language. It worked. The Navajo Code Talkers transmitted thousands of vital messages across the Pacific Theater. Not one was ever deciphered. Other Native nations, including the Comanche, Lakota, and Cree, made similar contributions in Europe. There's a certain poetic justice in that. For generations, Native languages had been suppressed, mocked, or forcibly erased. But in this moment, that same culture--so often overlooked--helped save the lives of thousands of Americans and win the war. It's a story I come back to often--because it reminds me how powerful and precious language can be. But I also know how language can exclude just as easily as it can protect. Words matter. Language can divide or unite, conceal or reveal, depending on how and when it's used. A while back, I read about a seminar offered to professional women, designed to explain the sports metaphors commonly used in corporate America. These were women with advanced degrees from top institutions--yet they were lost in meetings not because of lack of ability, but because of how things were being said. Phrases like "full-court press" or "swing for the fences" seem innocuous if you grew up glued to ESPN. But for others, you might as well be speaking Klingon. It's not about intelligence; it's about access. Intentional or not, language can become a gatekeeper. And it's not just sports. Every profession, every subculture, every group has its own dialect. Education, law, medicine, IT--they're all full of acronyms and shorthand that turn insiders into a tribe and relegate outsiders to being observers. But nowhere do I find this dynamic more troubling than in matters of faith. As a Christian, more specifically a Baptist, I grew up in church, becoming fluent in the vocabulary of my denomination. Words like "fellowship," "salvation," and "communion" feel second nature. But I sometimes wonder how those words sound to someone who's never darkened the door of a sanctuary. Do they land with warmth and clarity--or do they confuse, intimidate, and distance? Nearly every religion and denomination say they want to be welcoming. And I believe them to be sincere in that sentiment. Yet too often, the language of faith serves as a velvet rope. Not because of what we believe, but because of how we say it. There's a quote attributed to George Eliot that resonates with me: "The finest language is mostly made up of simple, unimposing words." It's a truth we'd do well to remember--not only in our pulpits, but in our boardrooms, classrooms, and living rooms. In times of war, speaking in code can save lives. But in times of peace--or at least, in the day-to-day moments of community and connection--we ought to aim for something else entirely. Not encryption, but invitation. Not mystery, but meaning. Maybe our challenge today isn't to come up with the perfect words, but to strip them down. To stop speaking in riddles when clarity will do. To remember that the first rule of good communication isn't to impress--it's to connect. Because if our words build walls instead of bridges, then we've forgotten what language is for in the first place. Tommy Druen is a native of Metcalfe County, with roots in Adair County going back to the 18th century. He presently lives in Georgetown, Kentucky and can be reached at tommydruen@gmail.com. This story was posted on 2025-05-01 12:20:06
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Have comments or corrections for this story? Use our contact form and let us know. More articles from topic Tommy Druen:
Tommy Druen: Literacy was a treasure for Clem Coomer Tommy Druen: The Power of the Small Tommy Druen: Holes in the water Tommy Druen: Leadership Kentucky Tommy Druen: Dedication to the Journey Tommy Druen: A battle that can never be fully won Tommy Druen: Remember to take pictures Tommy Druen: On issues we can actually address Tommy Druen: The meaning of true knowledge Tommy Druen: Being a builder View even more articles in topic Tommy Druen |
 
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