Forbidden Language

       This morning demands I examine the use of expletives in our language. Now, I’m no expert on the fine art of cursing, but I do know this…when you hurt yourself these words leap off your tongue like a the lead dancer in a ballet. It is not such a bad thing if you are alone when it happens, but there are times when you are in public. You end up being hurt and embarrassed at your rather skillful use of gutter talk.



       I awakened a few minutes late this morning. Having to pee and being tardy provided me with two good reasons to hurry to the starting gate of the morning race – the potty. (I’m back in the bathroom again…what is it with me and the toilet room???) As I posed myself for the quick approach, leaning forward, I propelled myself down the hallway toward the facilities.


       I must tell you this...I am not the tiniest of woman, so my linear force was something to behold. Midway down the hall, the window fan, which has been sitting quietly on the side of the carpet, suddenly leapt in the path of my right foot. Well, at least, I must believe it leapt or how else could I have missed it for two months and today suddenly forgotten it was there ?!?!?


       I know as human animals, we have all stubbed our toe at one time or another. This was NOT a routine, run of the mill, toe stubbing. This was like a nuclear attack on the metatarsals. I experienced a blinding pain, and I think I saw THE white light. (I did not go into the light, or I wouldn’t be here writing about it now!!!) At that moment, without any conscious thought, the word I try never to utter came ripping from my soul!! F*&) !!!


       I ponder – where did that come from? Does that word sit and wait for an opportune time to jump into the scene?  It spilled forth like an aria whose only lyric was, “Oh F*&) !!, Oh F*&) !!” As I hobbled the remainder of the way to the potty, the chorus of ‘Sh**, Sh**, Sh**” rang out in perfect rhythmic accord. Once I regained my sensibilities, and got my glasses to see the damage, I again entertained the thoughts of why these particular words spill forth subconsciously and without regard for your sense of decorum and honor.


       I managed to shower, the hot water causing new waves of nausea to ride on, but I had regained control of my foul utterances.


       As I now sit in my classroom writing this, I remember back to Super Bowl Sunday 1998. I remember the date well, because my mother passed away the Friday before the big game. I was on the phone planning Mom’s services for the following day. It was time for kick off. My three and a half year old twins were doing some dueling with little plastic swords they got while on a pirate cruise the summer before. There were many demands on my psyche and my emotions, so I only watched the sword fight with minimal attention. I noticed my son was getting the best of my daughter in the competition. He gingerly smacked her cheek with the flat side of the sword, and I knew from the teenage ‘Oh NO you didn’t!’ look that flashed from her eyes that some serious hurt was going to ensue. ( I almost expected a little teeny girl curse to escape her post-toddler lips.)


       The scene before my eyes was surreal. My daughter did a cross-body, bottom-to-top, swashbuckling move in Zorro-like fashion. The sword had a tiny piece of plastic edge that was protruding enough to act as a blade. From the far side of his right eye lid to the far left side of the other eye, this little sharp nipple opened a gaping wound in my beautiful son’s face. Blood began gushing from the wound. The site caused utter panic in all of us. My daughter began jumping up and down screaming, “I killed him, I killed him!!!” My son began running, as if he could out run the blood pouring into his eyes. I told the minister I needed to call back later and hung up the phone. I grabbed something from the fresh laundry that was waiting to be folded to apply pressure to the bleeding and called the neighbor to come watch my daughter while we went to the emergency room. He cried the entire ride there as his father held him. He kept screaming, “I want Mommy,” as I drove us at lightning speed to the nearest hospital.


       We arrived and the ER was empty. Thank God!! He was taken right in and they assessed the damage. It was determined he would need stitches, LOTS of them! They wanted to wrap him in a binding blanket, but we felt that would only make him panic more. His father decided to hold him down instead. A mother’s heart aches at a child’s fear and pain. I knew he was feeling both, as was my daughter who was still at home. The doctor approached him with the sutures and said, “Hold him still.” At that, my beautiful, blonde-haired three year old baby screamed at the top of his lungs, “Get the F*&) off me !!!”


       Time stood still. I remember the audible sucking in of air and the ‘OY!’ of shock escaped me. I stared at my son, then at his father, and finally at the doctor who was staring back. I asked his father, “Where did he learn that?!?!?!” I didn’t think he knew that word. His father made light of it saying the twins spend a lot of time in his auto repair job exposed to the customers and their fine grasp of the ten most popular English curse words. (I thought being home would be better than daycare?!?!)


       Well, it was embarrassing, but not the end of the world. His face healed as did our humiliation. I’m left still with the questions of the day… Why does that word seem so appropriate to our pain? Does it lie in wait for an opportunity to jump into our reality? Is there nothing to be done to restrain its frenzied onslaught? Why is this fact a truth in all languages? Why does it just feel so good to let it rip? I’m amazed, awed, and utterly distracted by it. Oh well, time to ice my toe and get back to work, so F*&) it! LOL






Debbie 3-12-10