WARNING - this piece uses a lot of bad language. If you don’t like swearing, don’t read it. Or don’t complain to me if you do.

So I swear. A lot.  I didn’t grow up in a household where this was acceptable and that was the initial allure - just one of a few tween rebellions.   Having a 12 year old who let it rip like a trucker was not a welcome development for my parents.  Dad was more likely to say “blast it” when he most surely would have preferred to say “fuck it” but being “propply brought up” meant he couldn’t bring himself to.   

I could get away with using the odd bad word with mom who had a slightly more flexible lexicon when dad was out of earshot. She will deny it when she reads this (if she reads this, having read the caution) but I have certainly heard her say “shit” over the years and “damnit” although efforts to get her to say even “no frickin’ way” have been in vain.  The real F word has certainly not passed her lips. 

I went over the line on one memorable occasion. 

“You do the fuckin’ thing, then,” I said, throwing my embroidery on the table towards my mother who was trying to impart some handiwork wisdom. Timing was bad - as the words exited my mouth dad entered the room resulting in a slap upside the head (don’t judge - it was the 70s and I deserved it).  I was banished to my room, mercifully free from the dratted tea towel in progress. Not the worst place to be as a 13 year old, even in pre-device days.  

In high school in the mid-80s, I discovered George Carlin’s “seven words you can’t say on TV” sketch released a decade earlier. The discovery was during my summer job fixing textbooks for the next round of users in September.  The treatment of books shocked my nerdy friends and me who’d all been hand-selected for this bit of work. But we LOLed before it was a thing when my friend found scrawled in the inside cover of an English text:  “7 baddest words shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, tits.” I’d like to report there was a colon preceding the list but that would be a lie. The ability to rhyme this off on command has stayed with me, proving useful on at least one occasion - to impress one of Jack’s unilingual Polish relatives on a trip. A helluva swearer in Polish I’m told, she was thrilled to begin her trip into the land of English learning with this helpful list. 

Unlike me and Jack’s Polish speaking relative, and indeed Jack himself, most people wean themselves off this tendency as they mature.  My theory - no empirical evidence yet, but lots of anecdotal support - is that childless people are more likely to let loose with foul vocabulary.  Jack - father of four - was the exception.

I once had occasion to see this business of parents not swearing in action. I was visiting a friend, pregnant with her first, and I dropped the F-bomb at some point, as happens when needed. The expectant father huffed at me, saying: “My unborn baby has ears, you know.”  My pro-choice, swearing, feminist self chose to channel the 10 inappropriate things I wanted to say in reply and instead took another swig of my beer.  If FFS had been a thing then, I might have mumbled it.  

I began my work to try to normalize swearing when I introduced my niece and nephew (aged 10 and 12 at the time) to MacLean and MacLean, the Canadian duo who made comic songs featuring some very rough language.  Their hit, “Fuckya,” became a real favourite among us.  When we knew singing the lyrics would cause unnecessarily turmoil with my parents (theirs didn’t care), we would hum the catchy chorus at each other, cementing my role as the cool aunt just 10 years their senior.    

As an adult, it always feels like such an enormous relief in a conversation when someone else breaks through the F-word barrier first. I am pretty sure Jack and I each used it in that fateful first meeting in my kitchen when he fixed my fridge.  Why would I hold back with the repair guy? But we collapsed laughing the day he first called me a sarcastic bitch and I responded with fuckin’ asshole, marking a new stage in our relationship, nearly as momentous as first using the L word.    

I’m proud too when friends become comfortable with their inner sailor. My COVID comrade has come along nicely during our endless evening walks; certainly there has been lots to swear about.  Similarly, my closest colleague at work who started off a proper lady 17 years ago when we met, let the walls down with me quite early in our friendship, and I couldn’t be happier.    

When I meet clients or deliver workshops, I find the judicial use of a slightly off-colour word (never the F word, be assured) helps build rapport.  “May I say - they’re being a bit of an asshole,” I say, followed closely by, “I can use that language with you, right?” They all smile, nod, and relax. Being a lawyer creates a barrier and this makes it less pronounced.   

What I don’t like is hearing these words used in ways other than expletives.  For me, bum, poo, and pee are always preferable to their vulgar alternatives although I have no qualms whatsoever referring to someone as an asshole (e.g. Jack), saying “shit” when I stub my toe, or recounting a time when I was pissed off.  

Like that Polish relative of Jack’s, though, it’s learning to swear in another language that really makes you feel like you’ve achieved something. Popierdolony (fucked up) was one of the first words Jack taught me and just today I’ve learned to spell it!  Thank you Google Translate!  

Before Jack died, we agreed there was no need for a grave.  We both felt land, a finite resource, should not be used to store the dead, but rather, to feed the living. We’d talked that I might dedicate a park bench to him but agreed it was a bit pointless - it’s not like Jack was a great user of parks! Jack, however, did spend a lot of time sitting in our yard, providing commentary on the world, his words regularly interrupted by messages to the flies that are an inevitable part of life in Toronto: mucha, spierdalaj!*, accompanied by a wave of his cigarette in the direction of the offending insects.  It seemed fitting, therefore, the summer after he died that I had the muralist, who provided the woodland scene mural on our garage, to come back to add a dedication to Jack.  

We’re deep into summer now and my writing desk has moved from my living room to my gazebo where I sit under the inscription and imagine how much he’d love it. Just as I am right at this very moment.  Have a fuckin’ good weekend.  

* “Mucha, spierdalaj” means “Fly, fuck off.” Later in the summer season, when the wasps came out, he switched to “osa, spierdalaj,” adding to my very useful Polish entomological vocabulary.  I also know biedronka, the word for ladybug.