What You Meant To Say And What It Did Instead

Author’s Opening Note.

I need to say this before anything else because pretending otherwise would be dishonest, and I have learned that honesty without care is just arrogance wearing church clothes. This reflection cost me something. It wasn’t written in one sitting. It wasn’t written clean. It was written between pauses, deep breaths, and moments where I had to step away and remind myself why I even bother putting words on paper in the first place. Writing like this doesn’t come from talent alone. It comes from memory, from wounds that still ache when the weather changes, from lessons handed down in kitchens and living rooms by people who loved you enough to correct you and strong enough to tell you when you were wrong without trying to ruin you.

I grew up learning that words travel. They don’t just leave your mouth and disappear. They linger in rooms. They follow people home. They sit with them when the lights go out. And sometimes, they echo longer than we ever intended. I also learned that some folks tell the truth like they’re swinging a brick, then look surprised when something breaks. That kind of honesty has never impressed me. It always felt lazy. Like someone wanted credit for being bold without taking responsibility for being humane.

There’s a difference between speaking clearly and speaking cruelly. New Orleans taught me that. This city will tell you the truth, but it’ll feed you first. It’ll laugh with you before it checks you. It’ll wrap hard lessons in rhythm, humor, and warmth because wisdom here understands timing. It understands tone. It understands that delivery matters just as much as content.

This reflection isn’t about silencing truth. It’s about rescuing it from people who use it like a switchblade and then claim innocence because they didn’t lie. It’s about intent. About why we say what we say. About whether our words are meant to heal, protect, guide, or just make us feel powerful for a moment.

If you’re looking for something neat and comfortable, this may not be it. But if you’re willing to sit with discomfort, laugh a little through the sting, and reflect honestly on how your tongue has both healed and harmed, then stay. This was written with care. Even the sharp parts. Especially the sharp parts.

What You Meant To Say And What It Did Instead When Truth Loses Its Manners And Forgets Its Job.

Written by Kātib Shunnar

Now let me tell you something the city taught me long before I could explain it properly.

Down here, we don’t rush our words. Or at least, we’re not supposed to. You grow up hearing how somebody said something, not just what they said. Tone gets talked about like it’s a living thing. Because it is. You can tell when somebody means well. And you can feel when somebody is enjoying the damage their honesty is doing. That feeling sits heavy. Like humidity that won’t lift.

I’ve watched truths land like blessings and like bruises. Same facts. Different intent. One builds a bridge. The other lights a match and calls it transparency.

My grandmother used to say, baby, just because it’s true don’t mean it’s yours to tell. She didn’t say it gently either. She said it while stirring pots, folding clothes, looking straight through you. And at the time, I thought she was being old fashioned. Turns out she was being wise. She understood something many adults still haven’t learned. Truth has a responsibility attached to it.

There’s a kind of honesty that wants applause. It likes to announce itself. Brutally honest, people say, like brutality is a badge of courage instead of a warning label. But brutal means savage. Violent. And when honesty needs violence to feel effective, that should make us pause.

I’ve seen people use facts like a crowbar. Prying open old wounds that were finally scabbing over. Sharing private struggles under the excuse of concern. Repeating someone’s past mistakes not to help them grow but to keep them small. And the saddest part is how often they look confused when trust disappears afterward. As if truth alone should have protected them from consequence.

Intent is the quiet part nobody wants to examine. Because intent asks hard questions. Why did you say that right then. Why to that person. Why in that tone. Why not in private. Why not with compassion. Why not with patience.

New Orleans folklore talks about spirits that linger when things aren’t laid to rest properly. I believe words do the same. When spoken with malice, they haunt. They float back up like coffins after a flood. You think you buried it. But intent has a way of resurfacing.

I’ve been on both sides of this. I’ve spoken truths too sharply. I’ve justified it by telling myself they needed to hear it. Maybe they did. But they didn’t need to be wounded by it. Growth doesn’t require humiliation. Correction doesn’t need cruelty. And clarity doesn’t demand aggression.

There’s a difference between telling someone the truth and telling someone off. One aims to heal. The other aims to win. And winning at the expense of someone’s dignity costs more than people realize.

Words carry memory. They remember where they came from. You can feel when someone is speaking from care versus when they’re speaking from unresolved hurt. Hurt people don’t just lash out. Sometimes they lecture. Sometimes they confess truths loudly so they don’t have to sit with their own pain quietly.

The Creator gave us language as a tool, not a weapon. And every tool can become dangerous in careless hands.

This city taught me rhythm. When to speak. When to pause. When silence says more than a sermon. Jazz isn’t about playing every note. It’s about knowing which ones to leave out. Words work the same way.

If your honesty doesn’t leave room for grace, it isn’t wisdom. It’s noise.

And if your truth leaves bodies in its wake, then maybe it wasn’t truth doing the damage. Maybe it was you.

Part Two

When Truth Starts Swinging Like a Fist.

How Words Lose Their Holiness When Intent Turns Mean.

There is an old story that never made it into books, one of those quiet pieces of city wisdom that gets passed mouth to mouth, porch to porch, like a warning wrapped in humor so it doesn’t scare you off too quick. Folks used to talk about a man who lived near the water, not rich, not poor, just loud. He was known for saying exactly what he thought, whenever it crossed his mind, no filter, no pause. People laughed at first. Said he was refreshing. Said he was real. Said at least you always knew where he stood.

But something strange started happening. Wherever he went, conversations would thin out. Doors closed quicker. Smiles tightened. People still nodded at him, still spoke, but nothing stuck. Nothing deep. He blamed them. Called them sensitive. Said truth made people uncomfortable.

One night after a storm, the river rose higher than usual. Not enough to flood the whole block, just enough to creep. By morning, folks noticed something odd. Floating near his house were things people thought were long gone. Old boards. Broken furniture. Pieces of lives once buried. The river had returned what the ground could no longer hold.

An elder said the river was tired of carrying his words. Said water remembers intent. Said every careless truth he tossed out without compassion sank somewhere and waited. And now it was all coming back.

People laughed at that part too. But they noticed something else. The man had no one left to help him clean up. No one to wade in. No one to lift. Truth spoken without care had finally isolated him from the very hands he needed.

Down here, folklore doesn’t need monsters. It just needs memory.

I think about that story every time someone says they were just being honest. Honesty without tenderness is lonely work. It leaves you standing in the aftermath wondering why nobody stayed.

My grandmother never raised her voice much, but when she did, it meant something. She once told me that if you enjoy telling a truth, you should question it. Enjoyment is not the same as clarity. Satisfaction is not the same as righteousness. And cruelty dressed up as courage still stinks.

She taught me that timing matters. That saying something true at the wrong moment can wound worse than silence. That telling someone everything you think in the name of transparency is not maturity. It is impatience. And impatience rarely builds anything worth keeping.

New Orleans understands restraint. People think this city is all noise and music and mouths that never stop. But that is surface level. Underneath, there is a deep respect for rhythm. Call and response. Give and take. Knowing when to let a thing breathe. Knowing when to let it go.

Truth has rhythm too. Say it too early and it startles. Say it too late and it festers. Say it without love and it bruises. Say it with the intent to help and it can change a life.

I have watched families fracture over truths that were never meant to heal. Secrets revealed not to protect but to punish. Private pain aired out like dirty laundry because someone needed to feel justified. And the wild part is how often the speaker walks away feeling clean while everyone else is left bleeding.

Truth can be violent when it is stripped of mercy. It can humiliate. It can corner. It can make someone feel naked in a room they never agreed to undress in. And when that happens, something sacred breaks.

We like to say words do not hurt. That is a lie people tell so they do not have to take responsibility. Words shape memory. They define moments. They lodge themselves in people and come back years later when nobody expects them. I still remember things said to me decades ago, not because they were true, but because they were delivered without care.

There is a difference between correction and exposure. Between accountability and spectacle. Between concern and control. Manipulators know this well. They use truths selectively. Pull out facts like receipts to shame, to guilt, to isolate. They say things like after all I did for you and mean remember your debt. They frame history as a weapon and call it honesty.

That is not integrity. That is leverage.

Integrity asks harder questions. Does this need to be said. Does it need to be said now. Does it need to be said by me. Does it serve healing or does it serve my ego.

The Creator does not speak carelessly. Look at how creation works. Nothing rushed. Nothing wasted. Even storms have purpose. Even silence carries instruction. We should learn from that.

I had to learn this the hard way. I have spoken truths in anger and called it clarity. I have wounded people and justified it by saying they needed to hear it. Maybe they did. But I needed to learn how to speak without cutting. How to pause. How to breathe. How to ask myself whether my words were about helping or about releasing my own hurt.

Hurt people do not always shout. Sometimes they explain. Sometimes they lecture. Sometimes they tell the truth loudly so they do not have to sit quietly with their own pain.

Breaking that cycle is work. Real work. It means processing your wounds instead of handing them to someone else. It means choosing restraint when retaliation feels good. It means refusing to let bitterness borrow your mouth.

There is power in the pause. That moment before you speak where you check your heart. Where you decide whether you are about to build or burn. That pause is spiritual discipline. It is love in practice. It is choosing not to turn truth into a blade.

I have learned that you can be honest and still be kind. That you can be clear without being cruel. That you can speak truth and still protect dignity. And when you do, something shifts. Trust grows. Walls soften. Conversations deepen.

New Orleans knows this. This city survives because people look out for each other even while calling each other out. Because humor cushions hard lessons. Because sarcasm keeps pride in check. Because wisdom here understands that nobody listens when they feel attacked.

Words can heal. They can anchor. They can call people higher instead of dragging them lower. But only if the intent is clean.

So before you speak, ask yourself who this truth is really for. Ask whether it leaves room for grace. Ask whether you are willing to stay and help clean up what your words might stir.

If the answer is no, maybe silence is the wiser choice.

Because truth without compassion is just noise. And noise never saved anybody.

Author’s Closing Words

If this reflection moved you, challenged you, or made you sit with yourself a little longer than you planned, I ask you to please share it by any positive means. Pass it along. Read it aloud. Let it travel where it needs to go.

Writing like this takes time, energy, and heart. If you feel led and able, please consider supporting the writer and the blog through donation. Your support helps keep this work alive and growing.

Thank you for listening with care.

Red Beans and Ricely Yours

Kateb Shunnar

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