Ennoia (en-no’-i-a): A kind of purposeful holding back of information that nevertheless hints at what is meant. A kind of circuitous speaking.
“Three blind lice.” I thought that was so funny substituting “blind lice” for “blind mice.” But making people laugh didn’t help me with my secret. I couldn’t just blurt out my secret, so I’d hint at it. I would say things like “A foot is bigger than inch.” Or, “That’s a real sneaker.” Or, “This little piggy goes nowhere.”
Why can’t I just come out and tell people I have a prosethic foot?
My foot was eaten by a rotary lawnmower when I was 10. My father was a landscaper and I helped him in the summer. He made us hurry so we could get more lawns done and make more money. We’d start at 7:00 am with people yelling at us because of the noise and we’d finish at around 8:00 pm exhausted.
I’ll never forget. It was 7:55pm, I had just looked at my Timex, and I was mowing up a steep hill when I lost my grip on the mower. It fell backwards over my foot and turned it into something that looked like a smoothie. I was in terrible pain. A ambulance took me to the hospital. I could hear my father ask “How much is this gonna’ cost?” as they loaded me into the ambulance and we headed for the hospital.
I had very extensive surgery. The prosthetic foot is amazing—I can walk, I can jump—I can do it all with my prosethic foot. I have no complaints and I am grateful.
All my father wanted to know after the surgery was when I could go back to work. He was told it would be 1 year at the earliest. He called me into the living room, took a long drag on his cigarette and said “You’re fired” as he blew out the smoke.
Since I couldn’t work for Dad’s “Mighty Mower” any more, I went to college. I couldn’t tell anybody about my foot. If I did, inevitably they’d want to know how it happened. I was too embarrassed to tell—but at the same time, I wanted to tell people about my foot so I could have honest relationships with them. That’s when I think I started giving foot hints or laying out hypothetical foot scenarios: “Imagine if you found out I have a prosthetic foot. Would we still be friends?” Or “Most men have two. I only have one.”
Betty answered this with “Balls?” I said, “No. Feet.” I was out. My secret was known. “I have a prosthetic foot” I said. She was a Nursing Studies major. She asked if she could see my foot. I took off my shoe and sock and there it was. She touched it and said it was beautiful—a work of art.
At that moment my foot trepidations melted away. I was beginning to feel proud of my foot. I started wearing shorts and Birkenstocks. Betty and I became a “thing” and got married when we graduated. We have a little boy named Arch. Sometimes Arch and I play catch with my foot. I’ve come a long, long way. All it took was love.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.
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