No does not mean Maybe, Possibly, In a Minute, or even Yes.  No means No.

Tolly P. Salz

The novel’s been sitting on my bedside table for almost a month now, recommended from a list of suggested summer readings.   After some months of reading things that were a bit heavy, interspersed with some silly mysteries, I longed to sneak in one of my guilty pleasures, young adult fiction.  Laurie Halse Anderson’s novel Speak fit the bill.

So last night, I picked the novel up off of the bedside table.  For the hour that followed, I did nothing else but read—and remember. 

Anderson’s novel introduces us to Melinda, a young woman who narrates her story of survival in a school of bullies, bitches, and bff’s who want nothing to do with her.  From the outset, we catch a glimmer of her angst as she states, “It is my first morning of high school.  I have seven new notebooks, a skirt I hate, and a stomachache.” Yet at this point, there is no way for us to know the back story, or a pivotal moment for Melinda during the summer prior to her freshman year. 

As Melinda narrates her everyday encounters with those who detest her, we discover only half of the story.  Later, she reveals all—to us as readers, as confidants, the truth of what really happened that August evening.  It’s a truth that desperately needs to be spoken, and by the end of the novel, Melinda finds the courage to speak, and not just with words:  she speaks with her silence, with her own artwork, and eventually, with her own actions.

I’m surprised that as parents, we don’t have more conversations with each other about the long-term effects of underage drinking, of binge drinking, of casual sex, of unwanted and untoward sexual advances, and of bullying.  I’m even more surprised that so many parents refuse to have this conversation with their own children.  If we don’t talk with them, then who will?  Their peers?  The media?  The role models of Hollywood?

Don’t get me wrong:  I’m not a total prude.  I am simply a woman who demands more for the children of this and future generations.  And while Speak is a must-read for all parents who are raising young women, I would argue that it’s also a must-read for all parents who are raising young men. 

Speak shows us what we need to tell our daughters—as well as our sons—about kindness, friendship, loyalty, decency.  About drinking and arrogance and sex.  About how no means just that—No.  Not maybe, or possibly, or even yes.  Speak shows us that true strength is in doing what is right, even—and especially—when it’s hard.

This is a novel I want my sons to read.  In this world that at times reeks of excuses such as “boys will be boys,” I want my sons to understand what true manhood is as well as what it looks like.  Teenage boys who act like jerks are just that, jerks, and we shouldn’t applaud them for their lack of character or human decency or excuse their actions that take no one but themselves into consideration.  Yet teenage boys who reach out to befriend and to be kind—even if these young men aren’t considered the “most popular”—are, in fact, the very ones we need to be honoring instead. 

I read Melinda’s story—and I remembered my own.  When my sons are a little older, I will share it with them.  I will admit that I was in the wrong place, at the wrong time, with the wrong person.  I will admit that I did not know how to speak—or how to speak in order to be heard.  And I will admit that while I did not possess Melinda’s strength and courage until years later, I have spent the rest of my years trying to use both to guide my actions. 

And perhaps, then, my sons will understand why I have tried so hard over these years to instill this strength and this courage in them, as well.  It’s simple:  being men of character is just too important for us not to speak about.