Do You Kiss Your Mother With That Mouth? (Short Essay)

                                               Illustration by Laurie Lail

By Laurie Lail

When I was a girl, my sister and I would spend the month of July with our grandmother in Forest City, North Carolina. One Saturday morning as we where strolling across the parking lot of the local Piggly Wiggly, we couldn’t help but notice a man whose grocery bag had failed him, leaving its contents splayed on the pavement. Anyone within fifty feet would have noticed him. He was pacing around a loaf of bread, splattered with busted jars of peanut butter, jelly, and pickles. He was chanting a chorus of profanity in time with his steps. 
When his wife spotted us, she nudged him from his dance, and his flushed face lost some of its glowing color as he spotted us. I remember feeling uncomfortable that we’d interrupted him because he seemed to have earned this moment. He straightened up, and let his arms drop to his side and said, “Sorry ‘bout this ladies,” he put his hand to his chest and looked at my grandmother and said, “truly sorry, ma’am.” He nodded, to my sister and me he said, ”Now girls, I shouldn’t have said those things, and you should never say those words either.”

We said, “Okay” in unison, but the truth was we where no stranger to those words. We’d heard our grandmother articulate a couple of them the previous morning after dropping a bowl of pancake batter. She not only graced us with some of these words, but she used them in lively phrases that showed their possibilities, and let’s face it, context is everything.

As I grew, like most children in this society, I became knowledgeable of the “bad-word” list available to me. There were always those kids who were proficient and liked to teach the rest of us the appropriate uses for them. I’ve grown up around swear words; we all have. During my years of restaurant work, I was certainly no stranger to these words. In appropriate company, one of these words roll quite easily from my tongue, but when I became a mother and held my new baby in my arms, I realized my life was about to undergo some big changes, and one of those changes would need to be my word choices.

I tried; I really did, and was surprisingly successful to a point. I cleaned up my language with only the occasional backslide, which to be honest, greeted me like an old friend. Yes, there were times I had forgotten my mission. But Come on; when you’re trying to console a little one with an upset stomach, and you accidentally drop his snuggle-bear in the vomit, what else is there to do? I was teaching him in the same way as the adults who had cared for me.

I have a memory of my son, when he was four, and I’d dropped him off at preschool. Anxious to play with his friends, he’d shed his coat and let it fall to the floor. Miss Sue asked him, “John, where do we put our coat?” to which he responded, “Hell if I know.” To which I responded, “I’m so sorry” as I sheepishly met Miss Sue’s eyes. She smiled and said, “They all say them sooner or later.”

That afternoon I found myself in the position of the poor fellow at the Piggly Wiggly as I tried to explain to my son that some words are bad. “How many words,” he asked. So, I listed off a few he may have heard to be sure he would know exactly which words to avoid. The little puff of skin between his eyes pinched at my explanation. So I decided to keep it simple, and I took his little hands and told him, “We simply should never say them. They can get us into trouble; they’re “bad words.” He thought for a minute, let his eyes meet mine and gently he whispered, “But you say them.”

Anyone who’s braved parenthood has probably used foul language at some moment while in the midst of raising her children, if not several moments. After separating from my husband, I became a single parent with a very modest income. Now either of those situations calls for occasional irreverence, but the combination can inspire it, and, perhaps, demand it, and let me say that it helps. That’s right, helps.

Here is an example: I’m driving down a two-lane byway. A guy pulls out in front of me forcing me to slam the breaks. I barely miss him. My tires screech, leaving a trail of black marks. When my car stops, I turn around to check my son. I turn back to the road just in time to see this guy flipping me off as he roars away. I respond by rolling my window down and screaming “you stupid mother fletcher!” Okay, I didn’t say” Mother Fletcher.” That is what I should have said, but I didn’t. I’m also sure this guy never heard a word of it, but my son did. There in front of my son, who was perched in his car seat, happily singing a song from school, not only did I shamelessly resort to name calling, but I bellowed out the dreaded “F” word, the word no parent wants to slip up and say, the word I dare not write in this article lest my son, now a teenager, stumble across it and use it against me. But honestly, I felt I could burst into flames in that moment. 

 To my surprise, John, my sweet little boy, already knew this one. He explained that another child in his class had said it, and Miss Sue put him in time-out. So, my son put me in time-out the minute we arrived home. He paced around as I sat in the appointed chair, and he would give the occasional disappointed shake of his head. He had no way of knowing that a fifteen-minute time-out had replaced both Aden Quinn and my dream kitchen as one of my top fantasies. Of course, Aden Quinn in my dream kitchen still ran neck-in-neck. All the same, I received this much needed just-sit-and-stare break because of a bad word. That day, my dirty mouth had been a blessing. So yes, I usually try not to say them, but sometimes, I know I’ll feel a little better if I let one slip.

My son is now Seventeen. He knows them all of course. He can say them in French and Spanish. Somewhere around age eleven, saying a "bad word" became part of his and his friends “secret” right of passage. This of course was to be done in the absence of an adult. Once, I caught him and a friend at the computer learning to say “Don’t piss on my shoe asshole,” in Finnish. I knew they would not only remember how to say it, but share it with friends as soon as the opportunity arose.

My son and I have had go-rounds through the last few years about his using profanity. On the one hand, I get it. It’s a way for him and his peers to announce they are adults. You know; adults who don't work,  or make dinner, or fix the ice-maker, or grocery shop, or pay bills, so swearing is all they have, and let’s face it, they could do worse. But never, can we let these people think that they may use them as they please, especially in an inappropriate place or in front of us. “What did you say? What the hell’s wrong with you? I’m standing right here.” 

       My son, since his first understanding of bad words has questioned why they exist. His reasoning no longer has the innocent curiosity it once did. We’ve moved from, “Why do we have bad words, Mommy?” and the little boy trying to make sense of his language, to the budding philosopher arguing, “Mom, if people didn’t get offended by bad words, then they wouldn’t exist. Think about it. It’s not the person who says these words that creates them, but the people who get mad about it.”

The irritating thing about his self-serving philosophy is that he makes a reasonable point. What makes  particular words bad?” It’s a good question. It’s a strange thing that we’ve decided that if certain syllables are uttered together they are offensive. How did these words become what they are, and what makes them so?

We know that “Malarkey!” is okay. These syllables may be uttered together by the Pope or the Dalai Lama and all’s well, however, were our president to say the “f-word” that would never do; well, okay, under normal circumstances anyway. Our present POTUS seems to have no scruples shouting it from his pulpit. Thanks to him, words like Shit-holes has been typed across our TV screens. "The Times they are a-changin'."

I wonder, as my son pointed out, if we were never offended by these words, would they cease to exist? What would we do if there were no such thing as bad words? Can you imagine? We may utter any set of syllables we choose and not a soul would bat an eye. We’d have to really think when we wanted to offend someone, and we’d have to come up with more creative ways to blow off steam. Perhaps pole tossing would make a comeback or actual mudslinging. I mean, really, how could we ever replace bad words, those wonderful jewels? And, I have to say; I’d miss them.

Let’s consider the significance we give them. For example, name-calling isn’t good, ever, but is telling someone she’s being a bitch worse than telling her that her behavior is pretentious, bitter, hateful, or immature? Using "bitch" is almost kinder in its vagueness. The other odd thing is that there are degrees of severity with these words.  For example, "what the hell" isn’t so bad, and is often used in a very carefree way. Shit, as in, “stop giving me shit,” or “No shit?” can be used playfully. Damn it! is considered unacceptable in formal conversation, such as court, work, and on the news, but it is a popular and understandable expression for those at home watching the news. Then there are words that have a bigger shock value. Any six year old can tell you that you can’t ever say the F-word because it’s the worst of all. Strangely enough, you can say F-word to explain that you can never say the F-word, and everyone knows precisely what F-word represents. Still, I can see the satisfaction on the face of the child who was pushed from the swing as she turns and says, “Aaaah! F-word you!” 

We also have other uses for these words other than there literal meanings. When we say, "Aw shit," we don't actually expect anyone to oblige, and when we say "damn it all,"we don’t truly think we're heaving the universe into a black hole because, thankfully, we don’t have that kind of power. We can’t damn our ex-spouse, a bit of bad luck, or the torpedoes, but I guess it’s not the actual meaning that we need, like all of these words, it’s the power of relief we feel at its utterance, the power of expression, or that extra conversational pizzazz.

Most every toddler has used the word poop, and it is a very handy and acceptable word, and even though “poop happens”, “I don’t give a poop,” and “what a poop head” can convey what needs to be expressed, it does lose a little something without its forbidden counterpart. The fact that these words aren't to be used at council meetings is exactly what gives them their zing in other venues.

No matter your relationship with these words, they are in our language, and so they have a purpose. It seems to me that we have created them because we need them. For some of us, the use of profanity is a practice we rise above, or at least try. For some, these words have given us something to tisk about when witnessing someone having a meltdown in a parking lot, making us feel the better person for not joining in. For some, swearing adds a little spice to the conversation, and for many, these words have been a health benefit by helping us manage aggravations and hardships.

I have a regular client who’s become a good friend over the years, and I think swearing together has played a part in that. She is an occasional Dr. Oz watcher; I love her anyway, and one day she met at the door and said, “Great news.”

“What’s that?”

“Doctor Oz says we’re supposed to swear. It’s good for us. He says it’s a great way to release stress.”
And I’m certain Dr. Oz is on to something. These words have warded off heart attacks and mental breakdowns. They can be spoken under our breaths when in the presence of cranky in-laws and bratty children, allowing us to grin and bear it. Screamed into a pillow and hissed in the car they get us through the aggravations of the day, the week, and the year, year after year.

As for my son, he still sometimes uses them, but like most adults, he minds the company with which he uses them. I can be proud that he is kind enough to not want to offend anyone without good reason. Through the years, I have decided there are bigger issues at stake, like grades, drugs, sexual misconduct, and so, I have decided what we will absolutely not tolerate in our family. I have picked my battles, and hearing him swear because he can't find his history notes is nothing I care to go to war over. I also know that childhood and growing pains come with stress. When John was about ten, he whipped his bike around in a pile of wet leaves and wiped out. He pushed his bike off, stood up red faced and asked, “Mom, I gotta’ say it. Can I say just one bad word?”

I thought about it. I looked around to see that we where alone and said, “Sure Honey, let’er rip.”