Swear Words

I grew up in a household where the only swear words I ever heard were “Damn” and “Hell.” These were reserved for instances of great pain or anger. We did not use vulgarities, ever. 

Of course I heard all those words-- the familiar, the outrageous, and the exotic-- elsewhere. A couple of little boys in the neighborhood added to my vocabulary. I didn’t know what they meant, necessarily, but I knew they were wicked. When I was a teenager, I had friends who were artists. They swore, sometimes very imaginatively. I tried out some of those words, surreptitiously, sometimes behind my hand, sometimes looking around to make sure my parents, or anyone who knew them, were not listening.

 Off to college I went. I added a few terms. I said them out loud. But one thing I always did: when I used them, I made sure that there was nobody around who would be offended, or who would think badly of me. 

I even tried them out in poems, and crossed them out.

My first major job after college was as a juvenile parole officer. I was 21. It was the mid to late sixties: my caseload was mostly runaways and truants, kids from troubled homes. Although I had a few who committed actual crimes, the majority were just sad kids. A more innocent time than the decades that followed. 

I was one of three women P.O.s in the office, and I was there much more often than the others, because my territory included the county where the home office was located. I worked almost daily with the men who worked with delinquent boys.  Most of the men were forthright about the kinds of things they saw and heard. At the beginning, they curbed their language around me, but as time went by, they relaxed. I picked up some new words. And I used them. I became, in essence, one of the guys. Again, I was always my mother’s daughter: I was careful of my audience, and looked out for anyone nearby who might think less of me.  

One of my community contacts was Alma, the social worker for an agency that helped pregnant girls. We liked each other immediately. She was thirty years my senior, and she grew up in a tiny town in western Ohio, the only child of the only Jewish family within fifty miles. The nearest synagogue was also fifty miles away. She told me of her loneliness and isolation, and how she became an avid reader.

She told interesting and sometimes funny stories: about trying out for a high school play, and discovering that her reading vocabulary didn’t prepare her for speaking those words aloud—to hilarious effect. She also talked about her adult life as a conservative Jew, her membership in the synagogue’s literary society, some trials and tribulations of some of her friends, and one instance where someone came to the door while she was cleaning her house, disheveled, not looking put together as she normally did. She pretended that she was the cleaning lady and would give the lady of the house their message.

I loved her sense of humor. I was also very respectful of the breadth of her scholarship: she read avidly--philosophy, history, literature, essays. 

After several years of professional contact, I decided to go to graduate school. I found out that she was going to be attending the same school, in the same program at Case Western Reserve University. We would be working toward a master’s degree in social work at the same time.

We lived in Akron, and decided to commute together. Sometimes another woman rode with us. We had lively conversations. When Alma and I were by ourselves, we talked of weighty matters. 

I was driving one morning on a new stretch of freeway that traversed the Cuyahoga River Valley. It curved and climbed through wooded hills, with no homes visible for miles. There was snow on the ground, snow on the road, and, on the bridges, there was glare ice.  Few other cars were on the road. I knew how to drive in those conditions, but one other driver apparently did not: he came within inches of side-swiping my car as he struggled with the slippery road.

My heart was racing as I steered away from that near-miss. 

I let out a volley of profusely blue language. And was immediately horrified at what I had done. What would this very cultured lady think of me?

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that she leaned back against the passenger side door, crossed her arms across her chest, smiled, and said,

“Janice! I thought they only talked like that in NOVELS.”

Much relieved, I apologized and we had a good laugh. I still watched my language, but used swear words when they were useful for emphasis. She tried out one or two herself.

A few years later, after graduation, we worked for agencies in the same town near Akron. I worked at a community mental health center, and she worked for a family service agency. She invited me to speak to the staff about mental health issues.

On the day of my presentation, I arrived at their building and was met by a young man who she had sent to show me upstairs. We introduced ourselves, and he stuck out his hand. 

“I’m delighted to meet the person who taught Alma to swear!” Taken aback for a brief moment, I joined his laughter. He had a good handshake.

Now I discovered that I had a reputation.

I’m still careful. I still look around and gauge my audience before I use off-color language. When in doubt, I self-censor. I am, after all, my parents’ daughter. All these decades later.

© Janice Mastin-Kamps, February 2017