awfully vulgar

For a special holiday post, I’d like to talk about my relationship with swearing. It’s a long relationship, nigh on 17 years long now.

When I lived in Rome (2nd through 4th grade), I heard one Italian word used on the playground so often, and with such urgency, that I just had to find out what it meant. Why I didn’t ask one of the people actually using it, or one of my Italian classmates, I have no idea. Probably the same reason that, in junior high, I would nod and laugh knowingly at dirty jokes that I didn’t understand. At any rate, I finally asked my parents if they knew. (Something I did NOT do with the dirty jokes.)

They didn’t know. So my dad asked one of his Italian coworkers. Oops. Well, I hope they had a good laugh about it.

In 5th grade, back from Rome and in full fish-out-of-water form in Rochester, MN, I was the quiet, shy girl who had been known to read a book during recess. God, the shame. But somewhere in the course of that school year, everything changed. I finally discovered the transforming power of swearing. I’d been sort of prudishly afraid of it before, for some reason—some misplaced notion about sin and virtue, I think.

But then, one vivid afternoon during the ritual torture known as gym class, as we played soccer or flag football or some similar cruel humiliation, I did it. I said “shit” in front of my classmates.

And my god, was it exciting.

Especially because their reactions were just SO satisfying. Mouths dropped open. Gasps were heard. Because this was me, goody-two-shoes me. I didn’t swear, did I? How shocking!

And how delicious. A whole new world had opened up at my fifth-grade feet. As time went on, I began to work at being good at swearing, at doing it creatively and well.

I had finally accepted “fuck” as my personal savior. I had found The Word, and it spoke to me.

The payoff was fantastic. Nevertheless, I continued for several years to avoid taking you-know-who’s name in vain. On I wandered in the wilderness, vaguely expecting that someone or something would strike me down if I said “Jesus” or “goddamn.”

I got over it.

And to this day, swearing is my good friend and valued hobby. A well-crafted oath is a work of art.

One thing I don’t do: I still pretty much never drop the C-bomb, although people tell me it’s not the weapon it used to be. Which disappoints me.

And this is the danger that lies hidden in recreational swearing. The fun of it all lies primarily in the power of these words—to shock, to awe, to startle, to amuse. Sometimes, yes, to offend. They’re really quite amazing considering that, logically, they’re really no more offensive than any other words. “Cunt” would hardly be different than “sidewalk,” except that we invest so much power in the word, all wrapped up with fears and phobias and all those puritanical “values” that people are said to vote on. But what if, with overuse and overexposure, the strength of words like this one eventually just gives out?

Maybe I should make a personal contribution to the cause by restricting my own usage. I can see the bumper stickers now:

Save the 4-letter words (for when you really, really need them)

But so far, I just can’t do it. I even have a new favorite these days, one that I never used to say: motherfucker. It’s an immensely satisfying curse, good and dirty and shocking, and really, really emphatic. I don’t use it so much around other people, even those with whom I’m comfortable being my true blue self, so to speak. Instead, I employ it mostly as an epithet to hurl at the alarm clock, the bag of cat food, the roll of wrapping paper, or any other inanimate object being uncooperative or otherwise frustrating.

This summer, as I stood on a beach in Washington State with my most liberal, artsy, feminist aunt, she raised the inherent misogyny of the word. She’s right, of course, and as a feminist myself I probably should abandon it.

But I like it.

Fatherfucker, maybe? It could work.