Whoever said “Sticks and stones may break your bones, but words will never hurt you” was an idiot.

Language is powerful, both in its written and spoken form. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve said something in jest or in passing, and found myself in the middle of a pile of muck.

I’m thinking of the time I laughingly (or so I thought) told a boyfriend never to dance with me again, and he didn’t, or when I joked (again, or so I thought) with a friend that he rwedding reception stank because we weren’t allowed to do the chicken dance orthe hokey pokey.

I thought I was being funny, but the words cut right through the silly expression on my face and the sarcastic waggle of my head.

As an English teacher, I rely on language. Language gives voice to my ideas, language helps me understand mystudents. Language, for me, is life.

I’ve spent a lifetime in schooltrying to master language. I’ve read a thousand books, written a hundred essays, but still, I find myself fumbling with language.

When I first started writing this column, I had several reasons for pursuing it. First, I wanted to make myself get involved in Dillon events so that I’d have something to write about. When I lived in Texas, I taught, graded, and did anything that involved being in air conditioning.

I wanted my life here to be different, and the need for language for the column provided a good excuse forgetting out.

Recently, I attended a local book club meeting. I shouldn’t have gone. I hadn’t read but 20 pages of the 800-plus-page book, but the need for experiences to write about for the column drove me there. It turns out that the people of Dillon once again didn’t let me down. Instead of chastising me (an English teacher, no less!) for not reading the book, the club welcomed me with intelligent, inclusive conversation and a very tasty apple cobbler. And the next time I go, I’ll be prepared. I promise!

The second reason I had for writing the column is that I wanted to make people laugh. I’m at my happiest when I’ve made my mom howl with laughter from reading this column. And getting my dad to laugh? It’s a hard-won prize, but Mom confirmed a lively chuckle or two from him as he read my first column.

And lots of people have told me they’ve enjoyed a good guffaw after reading about my dating disasters and my ignorance about steers and cattle guards. I’ve enjoyed a few emails from appreciative readers and even a moment at a Kiwanis breakfast (to which I was most kindly invited as a guest) when a member called out, “Hey, you’re the one who writes the column!”

Though I love making people laugh, in particular, I love laughing at myself. After my first date with Blake, I rolled on my couch with laughter thinking about my idiotic behavior. Laughing is good for you; it releases endorphins and makes your brain feel warm and fuzzy.

This column has also acted as a mirror for me. Rereading my past columns has revealed to me that I seem to have a strange affinity for all things scatological and a love of imbibing. This is ironic considering I’ve had the same unopened bottle of wine in my fridge since I moved here at the beginning of July. You might note that many of my potent potable activities are combined with moments of idiocy and unfortunate bodily functions—let that be a lesson to you, kids.

The last reason I had for writing this column is that, like most writers, I had something to prove. Although I have been teaching at the university level for 11 years as a graduate student and an adjunct professor, this is my first tenure-track position. I am quite serious about my teaching and my scholarship (and I have the degrees and the published articles to prove it), but I have never wanted to be the stereotypical tweedy academician with her nose in a book.

When I started writing this column, I thought that poking fun of myself for a quick laugh would break down thatimage, but through this image-busting, I may be unwittingly contributing to the spirit of anti-intellectualism that currently pervades the United States.

And this self-mockery has brought up a more personal dilemma for me: What does it mean for me to be a woman who is also a professor?

The word “professor” conjures up images of reading glasses, pipes, and elbow patches. I own none of those things, but I can toss around words like “hegemony,” “paradigm,” and “debunk” while striding in my Kenneth Cole mules and swinging my Kate Spade handbag.

Why the dilemma then? Why can’t I be an intellectual in Chanel lipstick? Why can’t I listen to rock and Rachmaninoff? Read Stephen King and Sophocles? Why can’t I fall down, mess up, belch, drink beer, and cry? Why can’t I be and do all these things AND be smart, published, quoted, and respected?

And the answer is: I can.

And I am.

Writing this column has helped me realize this.

So “sticks and stones may break my bones, but words,” it turns out, will set me free.