My Potty Mouth Sparked a Petition

I Swear...

During the height of my parents’ marriage falling apart, I remember both of them coming into my room and sitting on my bed to have a talk. This was highly suspicious. I didn’t get in trouble often, but when I did, it was more a yelling situation rather than a “We need to discuss something with you” type of thing.

I knew this was different because they seemed more sad than mad. And they rarely presented as such a united front. I felt my back pressing into the wall at the head of my bed as I tried to create more space between me and whatever this was.

What this was was the neighbors collectively coming to my parents to tell them I had a trash mouth and was saying words a 9-year-old should not be saying. They had basically signed a petition demanding my parents get my “self expression” under control.

At the time, I interpreted my parents’ uncharacteristic approach to reprimanding me as them being ashamed of me. In reality, they were probably also ashamed of themselves, because where do you think I learned those words?!

My Native Language

My childhood home life was loud, explosive, tense and heavy. My parents’ marriage was imploding and so was my sense of security and peace. I’ve never been one to hold things inside, although I’ve often let things out in inappropriate ways. I absorbed the rage and chaos of my home but didn’t have the maturity or tools to let it out properly or productively.

I remember the feeling of my stomach contracting like a piece of tinfoil being crumpled into a ball when I’d hear my dad cuss in anger. It was one thing to hear a cuss word dropped into casual conversation. It was something totally different when the words flew like bullets being shot out of a rage rifle. My nervous system would shift into overdrive and my flight response would kick in. The cussing was usually the warning shot fired before a full-on flare. In these moments, I felt powerless. Anxious. Afraid.

It’s no wonder I wanted to appropriate the power of swearing for myself. I think it was a small way to de-weaponize the words that often sent me running for cover.

Under the auspices of faking it til you make it, I cussed to seem strong, ballsy, unafraid, unafraid, unafraid when I was actually anything but.

I remember the illicit thrill of shocking my friends with a surprise curse word. In hindsight, I think it gave me a taste of the power I didn’t feel at home. And I think it provided a way for me to release the rage I didn’t know what to do with.

I don’t think I was bold enough to cuss around neighborhood parents, so I don’t know if they overheard my antics or if I was ratted out by my 4th grade peers. I’m not sure what set in motion their collective intervention, but it must have been significant to warrant a response in the form of a petition.

As dramatic as my childhood swearing must have been, it was pretty much the extent of my bad girl behavior since I was a people pleasing teacher’s pet wannabe.¹

The petition put an end to my over-the-top antics though and resulted in the first time I was grounded. I can’t recall how long my punishment lasted, but I do remember them cutting it short when Dad brought home his new convertible. I was allowed to go for a joyride with him and was subsequently released from my exile.

I’ll Never Swear Off Cussing

My curse word habit has tamed. I do know how to behave respectfully and with civility and good manners. But sometimes the impact and in your face nature of a good swear word is appropriate. (Stubbing your toe, watching your home team flail and getting stuck in tortuous traffic come to mind.)

Like my tendency to be a bit dramatic, my lack of math skills, my freakishly long toes and my supreme impatience, I’ve come to accept my cussing conduct as just another part of the imperfect package that is me. The older I get, the more comfortable I am in my skin even when the skin I’m in might be a turn-off to others.

I love a good curse word. Like everything, there’s a time and place. But who am I kidding, I use them a lot of the time and all over the place.

Here’s where I wouldn’t cuss: a job interview, teacher conference, in a dinner party at a palace, when meeting Oprah or Dolly Parton, in an important meeting, around children, during a live TV appearance or during a religious ceremony such as a funeral or wedding. (Although in my grandma’s eulogy, I did relay her one word reaction to finding out she had pancreatic cancer: It was “Shit.” I also said the same word at the altar during my wedding when my dad stepped on my train and ripped it off my dress. I feel like these two instances don’t count.)

But fuck it. Here’s where I would—and do cuss: everywhere else.

---

1. For more about my teacher’s pet aspirations, read this.

The Teacher's Pet Project