“Good morning, dumb ass!” I waved a pudgy hand at our elderly neighbor as my mortified mother scooped me up and raced back into the house. It was the summer before I turned three. I was a potty-mouth-in-training, on the fast track to a bright future as a sailor or Dairy Queen assistant manager.
My parents were of the literal mind that the beautiful noise of swearing warranted a mouth washing using the slimy bar of soap that sat on the edge of the bathroom sink. (This punishment never slowed my cussing but I have developed a raging germ phobia.)
Most of what I learned about cussing, I learned in my own family where there were three levels of swearing: cute, intermediate, and straight-to-hell.
My mother was a cute cusser and favored “hell’s bells” and “son of a biscuit.” We knew she was pushed to the edge when she brought out the abbreviated version of goddamn. As in, “How many times do I have to ask you kids to take out the G.D. trash?”
Dad was an intermediate-level cusser. He was all over the basic words of swearing, and he frequently belted out a “Jesus H. Christ.” (He also avoided going to church with us; the nuns noted this technically put him in the “straight-to-hell” category.)
I remember once, the two of us were cruising in the Rambler, Dad with a can of beer wedged between his knees. Someone ran a stop sign and he slammed on the brakes. His arm flew to the right to brace me (Who needs seatbelts when you’ve got a big, hairy arm?) and he spewed, “Fuck!”
“What is THAT word?” I asked, somehow understanding that this never-before-heard exclamation was the king of all expletives. The F-word: noun, verb, and exclamation, all rolled into one. It’s like the Swiss Army knife of swearwords. I couldn’t wait to add this to my own lexicon.
“I didn’t say anything,” he answered.
“Yes, you did!” I pushed.
“No, I swear.” He stood his ground and kept his eyes on the road. Was he smirking?!
“I’m telling Mom.”
He said it and we both knew it. Besides, now that beautiful F-bomb was mine and I was going straight to my neighbor, Edmond, to one-up his sorry ass.
The master of the potty mouths was my Aunt Agnes. She was on a level that shot a soul whizzing past purgatory and directly to the devil. She swore with a stream of consciousness that is unrivaled in our family. Where my mother stopped to avoid confessing to a priest, or my father lied like any good parent, Agnes flew past these limits with her foot on the accelerator and the wind in her hair.
My aunt lived in an ancient four-story home in Detroit with a rollercoaster in the back yard and eight children. She used to balance a cigarette on her bottom lip, which bounced while she talked, and rattled off all eight names of her children, in birth order. She swore without thought of consequence. She exposed me to some of my favorite phrases: “jumped-up Jimmy jackass,” “go piss up a fucking rope,” and “for Christ’s sake, that’s the drizzlin' shits!”
I was a quick study. “Go piss up a fucking rope, Danny!” I yelled at my cousin who cut in front of me in the line for the aforementioned rollercoaster. My mother heard this and hauled me into the house. Hello, bar of soap.
I developed my own views about swear words and I believed that holding back a cuss rant is like stifling a sneeze or an orgasm. It is healthier to express, than repress. In fact, I have questioned the sexual capacity for those who profess to have never resorted to dirty words.
I used to think all that…until I had a child.
Now, when I’m cut off while driving, I choke back my ape-shit rage. I edit myself with a split-second delay, “What the…the…fudge! Stupid driver!”
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” my toddler parroted from the backseat.
I explain to her—in a rational way—that words are powerful and can hurt other’s feelings. Some words might make others upset. She stops immediately.
This is so easy! Family cultures can change and my daughter is a testament to this. The chain of potty mouths has been broken and I have never resorted to the “mouth washing” abuse. Clearly, I have a more evolved parenting style than my parents.
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This morning, my daughter sang happily from her car seat, where she was strapped in like a Space Shuttle commander in the nine-point belting system. No hairy arm restraints for her.
We stopped at our local coffee place. The barista greeted us with a happy wave and my little angel waved back.
When my daughter was given her muffin, she said, “Please” and “Thank you” in all the right places. Then, she flashed a dimpled smile at the grandma-type who was standing in line behind us.
As we were leaving, my little girl dropped her precious stuffed toy lamb, Abby.
Grandma-type lifted it from the floor and handed Abby to my sweet girl who responded with, “Thank you!” and another big, heart-melting smile.
“She’s lovely,” said the grandma, glowing.
My daughter hugged her stuffed animal to her chest and scolded, “Abby, you a dumb ass!”
Grandma-type’s face screwed up in a snarl; she snorted at me and started to say something about how she raised her children.
I might’ve told her to go piss up a fucking rope.
