I make my living by stringing words together, but I have always thought that they were just words — tools to build a story or make a point.

Some people, however, get all bent out of shape and very self-righteous if you have the temerity to use a word not sanctioned by the guardians of political correctness.

State Sen. Donna Bailey of Saco is one of those people, always ready to correct you with her vastly superior intellect and unquestionable moral fiber; a proud member of the Semantics Police Department, serving northern York County.

Allow me to back up a bit for context.

Gimme three steps, mister

It was the summer of 1987 when I almost died because of the words I used.

Okay, so that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but the rest of the story is painfully true.

I was 23 years old and found myself working on the Cheyenne River Reservation in Eagle Butte, South Dakota.

I was one of five young men contemplating becoming a Catholic priest. We were sent to the reservation to help with mission work. I was assigned to teach summer school in a one-room schoolhouse on the far edge of the reservation.

It was rewarding work, but I quickly discovered that becoming a priest was not going to be a viable option for me.

You see, there was this smoking hot blond girl from Marquette University who was also working on the reservation that summer. That is a story for another day.

One evening I strolled into a tavern that was located not far from the rectory. I got a few strange looks but no one seemed to mind me being the only white person in the building.

Yes, I instantly felt awkward and out of place. A big part of me wanted to turn and head for the door. That would not be polite, I reasoned. So, I strolled to the bar and took an empty seat.

I ordered a Coors beer and tried to relax. There was a very big man sitting next to me. He was alone at the bar, so I decided to strike up a conversation.

“It must be really hard to be a Native American living on the reservation,” I said.

He slowly turned his toward me and said, “What did you just say?”

For reasons still unknown, I decided to double-down and still felt quite proud of my sensitive, caring nature. So, I repeated myself: “It must be really hard being a Native American on the reservation.”

His eyes narrowed and he leaned forward on his stool, gritting his teeth.

“I am a fucking Indian,” he snarled.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to run. I wanted the 82^nd Airborne to come rescue me.

He continued, his eyes locked on mine. “Don’t you ever use those words again,” he sneered. “Maybe it makes you feel better about yourself or the fact that it was your people who raped our women and stole our land, but it’s an insult if you think using pretty words is going to help anyone.

“I am a fucking Indian and don’t you ever forget it.”

I tried to absorb his words, nodding politely. I sat in my seat for a few more minutes.

A few painful seconds of awkward silence passed, and the man to my right let out a sigh and turned toward me once again. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know that you’re here to help, but it’s just frustrating. As if a couple of words are going to change anything.”

What are words for?

For better or worse, we live in a world where we are now required to walk on eggshells, a never-ending requirement to sugar coat reality and inflate our chests about our moral superiority simply because we no longer use the “N-word,” the “R-word,” or even the “C-word.”

It’s really rather silly how quickly we trip over ourselves without thinking about how perfunctory our conversations have become.

No, I am not advocating for bringing back use of the N-word or any other long since abandoned — or intentionally offensive phrase.

I simply believe that what you do is far more important than what you say.

I simply believe that what you do is far more important than what you say

I think too many of us pat ourselves on the back for using the “right” words, the appropriate pronouns and phrases without doing much else other than pontificating with smug moral superiority about our vernacular.

Earlier this year, I got called to task for using the word “homeless” in my three-part news series about a growing problem in my community. It was a comprehensive series that attempted to dig deeper into a complex societal issue.

None of these “unhoused” advocates thanked me for taking on the issue, for actually interviewing people who are living on the streets. They simply felt the aching need to criticize me for using the “wrong” word.

What did I do? I went back to speak with some of those people I interviewed and asked them their thoughts about my word choice.

They laughed at me. “Who really cares?” one man asked. “I don’t care. I just want to live inside.”

Back to Donna Bailey

Bailey recently won her reelection bid as the state senator representing Saco, Buxton and Old Orchard Beach. She is an attorney and charter member of a political clique that includes former state senator Justin Chenette of Saco and State Rep. Lori Gramlich from Old Orchard Beach.

These guys work like velociraptors. They hunt in packs.

Earlier this year, when I was working on a story for Saco Bay News, I had a really hard time getting a hold of Bailey. She was reluctant to return my calls, and then told me she had been “really busy.” Hmmm. “Really busy” for nine days?

On election night, while greeting voters headed into the Thornton Academy gymnasium, Bailey could barely bring herself to look at me when I greeted her and wished her luck.

I was not at all surprised by Bailey’s behavior. She keeps an enemies list, and my name is on that list.

One of my closest friends – Craig Pendleton — had decided once again to run against her this year.

Craig got smoked in that election. Bailey won by a large margin, a repeat of an earlier contest four years prior. But she will never forgive me for supporting my friend

Earlier this week, members of the 132^nd Legislature went sworn into office. The ceremony is a big deal in Augusta. Lots of media coverage. Everyone is smiling as they prepare to begin another two years of pomp and circumstance.

State Rep. Marc Malon (D-Biddeford) posted a comment on his personal Facebook page, telling us he was honored to represent his district again. Malon also decided to again express his ire about a fellow lawmaker, a Republican from Sanford who is accused of domestic violence.

Malon is also somewhat pissed that the Portland Press Herald repeatedly used the words “choking” and “choke” instead of strangle and strangling in their ongoing stories about this dirtbag.

Marc and I get along pretty well, even though we often disagree about politics. Regardless, I once again had one of his campaign signs on my lawn. I responded to his post saying that I understood his frustration about the scumbag from Sanford, but I also cautioned him against railing a fight on semantics with the state’s largest media outlet.

Within minutes, Donna Bailey decided to also jump into the conversation. Funny – – on this busy day – Bailey had enough free time to chide me about the issue of choking versus strangling.

Being the sometimes-insufferable prick that I am, I basically told Bailey to please take a long walk on a short pier.

Malon – being the only one of good character in this story – ended the conversation by taking down his Facebook post.

Tomato or tomato?

If my wife were to tell you that I intentionally choked her, would you shrug your shoulders and say, “wrong word. Call us back if he strangles you?”

Unhoused versus homeless?

Strangled instead of choked?

Native American or indigenous person?

Woman or menstruating person?

How far down this silly-ass slope are we going to slide until we finally recognize how lucky we are if words are the things we are most upset about?

Words are harmless, it’s how we use them that matters.

P.S. As predicted; Bailey has “unfriended” me on Facebook.

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