Evidently, I have developed a potty mouth. Not the extreme words that make you cringe when you happen to overhear them in a public place, or the fowl expletives that can arise when you hit your head on the cupboard door, but words that are indelicate and offensive to the pure at heart. I am not sure where I got it. I was raised in a home where “damn” would have been the ultimate curse and then used only in extreme circumstances.
During my career I taught small children, then middle years students, and then high school English, where my job would have been at risk had I spoken with a “rich” vocabulary. I raised three children and was sometimes guilty of baby talk or speaking down to them, but I don’t think I ever swore heartily at them. So why in my empty nest stage of life, have I cultivated the jargon of a sailor?
Maybe, because I can. For the first time in my life I don’t have dependent children I need to model for, students and school boards I need to behave for, or parents I am going to embarrass and make wonder where they failed. And, to be honest, there are just some points that are made much easier and with more emphasis with the occasional “damn” or “hell”. Some days “crap” is the only way to describe something that is happening and shouldn’t be, and “bitchy” is the best descriptive word for my mood or someone’s I don’t agree with.
The trouble with all of this new-found freedom of language is that it becomes a habit. You can tell when cussing is part of a person’s convention when it rolls off their tongue as if they were saying “Good Morning”.
I had a little sweetheart in my grade one classroom who had such a habit. It was hard to discipline him too harshly because the words were never said in defiance or to test – they were just the way he talked, and I suppose, words that he heard on a daily basis. One day while I was setting out a paper mache’ project for art – he looked up at me and said, very earnestly “Mrs. Hack, do I have to put my hands in this shit again? I had to put them in this shit at Sunday School and now, again?” I remember turning around to hide my smile and seeing 25 big sets of eyes all watching to see what I was going to do. We had to go for a long walk and have a classroom discussion about the intricacies of the English language and the environments that determine the language that we use. My little student and I developed a secret sign that would remind him to apologize and choose his words carefully if he slipped.
Well now, 40 years later, I have that same kind of problem. When I was speaking to 500 ladies all dressed in finery and attending a banquet , I let slip the occasional word that is not gala appropriate. While I was playing Hide and Seek in the forest with my six beautiful, impressionable grandchildren and stubbed my toe, words would come out of my mouth that are new to their virgin ears. My many hours of unsupervised and un-judged freedom of speech have brought out a habitual behavior that is going to have me remembered as the “old broad with a fowl mouth”.
So, at 67 years of age, I am once again learning to speak. I have made a deal with my husband to give me a secret sign when I have used a profanity, to ensure that I am aware that I am using inappropriate language for the environment. I try to be on my best behavior when I am in public, or with my vulnerable grandchildren.
Is it working? I think so.
But when I am with my “safe” people, who judge me not, and occasionally, when it just can’t be said another way – I could fit into a hockey dressing room and feel right at home.