When the Tongue Runs Ahead of the Soul Lessons from Listening, Laughing, and the Streets of New Orleans

When the Tongue Runs Ahead of the Soul

Lessons from Listening, Laughing, and the Streets of New Orleans

By Kateb Shunnar

I’ll tell you straight up I wasn’t always the reflective type. Nope. Back when I was younger, my mouth had a mind of its own, and my temper? Lord, it moved faster than a streetcar on St. Charles. I thought I knew more than anybody else, always ready with a comeback, a quip, or a sarcastic jab. Selling my grandmother’s sweet potato pies in Armstrong Park, Treme, I strutted around like I ran the city. Music drummed through the streets, the smell of fried fish and pralines was thick in the air, kids laughed and screamed between benches, and me? I thought I had it all figured out.

Then one afternoon, out of nowhere, this old man looked like he’d been born with the Mississippi River flowing through him ambles up, cane tapping like a metronome. I hand him a pie, chest puffed out like a rooster, and he stares me down. “Young man,” he says slow, deliberate, “you ever been told to listen before you open that mouth? To think before your tongue runs ahead?”

Now, I nearly snorted. Me? Listen? Think? I was ready with a speech, a sermon in my head, and Lord, I wanted to fire it off. “Excuse me, sir?” I said, brushing my hands on my apron.

He chuckled, shaking his head as if he’d been waiting all afternoon for this moment. “Yeah, boy. Listen. Weigh your words. Slow to anger.”

I wanted to laugh, wanted to roll my eyes, but something about his voice the slow rumble, the way the sun caught the silver in his hair made me pause. I nodded. Half respect, half survival. And though I didn’t know it then, that advice would echo through every misstep, every argument, every foolish mouthful of words I’d ever speak.

“A wise man is quick to hear and slow to speak.” Folks throw that around like it’s just a pretty saying. But it ain’t. In New Orleans, words move fast. Jokes, arguments, gossip they travel quicker than a streetcar hit by Mardi Gras parade. And if your mouth is faster than your mind? Baby, you’re gonna regret it.

Let me give you the first lesson I learned. I’m sitting in Congo Square one evening, watching the kids dance, the drummers hit rhythms that make your feet itch, and this man calls out to me, all loud and fire in his voice: “Boy! You think you’re clever, huh?”

I snapped, mouth first, “I ain’t thinking clever, sir I just am!”

He bursts out laughing, nearly falling off the bench. “Boy,” he says, wiping tears from his eyes, “that’s why they say slow your words. What you think is clever ain’t always what folks hear.”

I swear, that day I felt like a fool. But it stuck. Slow to speak doesn’t mean timid. It means choosing when to talk, picking words that lift rather than burn. Humor helps. A laugh can soothe a brewing storm quicker than any sermon. And boy, in New Orleans, humor is the oil in the machine of life.

Speaking of humor, let me tell you about my grandmother’s favorite story the “Tale of Big Boudreaux and the Catfish.” Funny story, sure, but it holds a lesson. Big Boudreaux, pride of Bayou St. John, catches a catfish so enormous it looks like it could swallow a rowboat. He yells, “Look at this beauty! Look at this beauty!” every other second. Then the fish wriggles free, slips back into the water, and Big Boudreaux hollers like the devil himself stole his soul.

The funniest part? His anger scared every other fish in the bayou. He didn’t catch a thing that day. Folks laughed for weeks. Lesson? Letting your anger run ahead of your soul only drives away what you want most.

I’ll admit I used to be just like Big Boudreaux. Quick to speak, quick to flare, thinking I could fix the world with my words. Life, though… life has a way of humbling you. Gray hair sneaks in, your shoulders get heavier, and suddenly you start seeing why that old man in Armstrong Park told me to slow down. Words ain’t just sounds they’re seeds. They grow bridges or walls depending on how you plant them.

There was another day in Tremé. I’m on a bench, watching the kids twirl to a second-line rhythm. Two young men start squabbling over a card game. Voices rising, insults flying. I lean over and holler, “Now, y’all better calm down before y’all throw the whole game into the bayou!”

They freeze, stare at me like I sprouted wings, then laugh so hard they nearly fell over. Sometimes, that’s all it takes words timed right, patience, and a little humor to cool the heat before things boil over.

Being slow to anger ain’t about holding grudges or letting folks walk over you. It’s about letting your soul guide your words rather than your ego. Anger creeps in like a shadow, whispering that you’re right, that the other person’s wrong, that the world’s out to get you. But when you slow down, when you breathe, when you let humor and patience take the wheel, you see things clearly.

Now, let me tell you about another neighborhood tale Madame Claiborne and her talking chicken. Yeah, I know it sounds silly. But this one’s golden. Madame Claiborne swore she had a chicken that answered questions if you asked polite, mind you. One day, a young man comes by, mocking her, rapid-fire questions, no patience. She just shook her head: “Slow down, boy. Speak too fast, and you’ll scare my chicken off.”

And sure enough, that chicken clucked its way off the fence and hid in the bushes. Folks laughed, but the lesson stuck: rushing words leads to nothing but chaos, whether it’s a chicken or a human heart.

I’ve learned, through decades of mistakes, laughter, and observation, that not everything deserves a reply. Lord, I used to think every gossip, insult, or slight deserved a fiery comeback. Life taught me otherwise. Silence can be louder than words. Letting things slide doesn’t make you weak it makes you wise. Choosing your battles preserves your peace and your spirit.

Listening, patience, humor they’re acts of compassion, acts of care, acts of love. Every person you meet carries stories, wounds, dreams, lessons. When you slow down, you see that. You understand. You connect. And you don’t lose yourself in anger or pride.

Even now, I slip sometimes. A sharp word slips out, a spark of irritation flickers. But I catch it. I breathe. I remember old man Batiste. I think of Big Boudreaux and Madame Claiborne. I pause. I laugh. I shake my head. And I let it go.

See, life in New Orleans teaches rhythm not just in music, but in words, in patience, in living. Let your tongue dance with your soul. Let your words be deliberate, playful, gentle, sometimes bold but always with care. Quick words, unchecked anger, careless speech… they can burn bridges faster than a hurricane sweeps down Canal Street.

So remember, child, when your tongue starts running ahead of your soul: pause. Listen. Weigh your words. And if anger comes knocking, don’t answer. Let it pass. Use humor, humility, patience, and your heart. Because words are powerful. They can heal, connect, and lift. Or they can wound, divide, and destroy. And once they’re out there… there ain’t no taking them back.

And if you doubt it, just ask Big Boudreaux… or Madame Claiborne’s chicken. They’ll tell you the same thing, with a wink, a cluck, and a knowing shake of the head.