Teaching the
baby to swear . . .
by Donna
Hébert
October 2014
Now you must understand that my French-Canadian Nana used
Fels Naptha bar soap (with lye in it) to wash out our
mouths if we said a bad word. How was I to know what “taber
. . .” meant? So I tried not to use bad words around
adults, a few of whom used them pretty liberally
themselves. It was the fifties, though, and these
second-generation immigrant adults were, for the most part,
self-conscious about their accents, so they tried to bury
them and gain admittance to the American middle class.
My own speech and world view had loosened up some when I
finally began raising a daughter in my forties. Values were
re-examined. Schools had changed as well. At no time during
any of my schooling had we sat down on the floor, or taken
our naps next to each other on the floor. Indeed, we sat at
our desks and put our heads down on same (we stayed in one
room all day), and pretended to rest. Nor were our school
floors carpeted. Do you get where I’m going?
When my own lovely daughter entered public school, her
blonde ringlet curls hung more than halfway down her back.
She loved them and so did I. Perfect hair. I had, somehow,
in spite of genetic improbability, produced a child with
utterly perfect hair. My own stringy hair echoed that of my
soap-wielding Nana, whose life-long dissatisfaction with
her hair was well-known, leading to her affectation of
polyester wigs when they became fashionable in the ‘70s.
All her bingo biddies knew about her hair, to the point
that, when she died, they took Polaroid pictures of her in
the undertaker’s hair and makeup and put them in the coffin
so she could see how good her hair finally looked!
So in she walks to kindergarten, my innocent, long-haired
girl. Within two weeks, her scalp is itching and we’re
sitting in the bright sun on the front stoop with a lice
comb. Indeed, her head (and my skin) are crawling. Multiple
applications of lice-killing shampoo to all family members
ensue, along with the purchase of a new vacuum cleaner
after we use the old one to clean every surface in the
house and then toss it in the trash lest it re-infest the
premises. But we did everything, including keeping her out
of school until she passed the school nurse’s
high-magnification head exam.
So, back in class she goes. This time it was maybe three
weeks before her scalp began itching. Somebody else’s mom
hadn’t thrown their damn vacuum out, I fumed. Then I
realized. The kids sit next to each other, clothing hanging
together, lying on the carpeted floor together. This was a
losing battle. So I took my heart and scissors in hand and
cut her beautiful long hair to about shoulder length. This
gave the little bastards half as much territory to infest
and cut my nit-picking time considerably. By now the poor
kid felt like she should carry a placard decrying “UNCLEAN”
so no one would touch her. And she mourned her hair. So did
I. For that matter, Nana probably did too, from her
French-Canadian heaven. It was at this point that I briefly
entertained the thought of getting the instruments out of
the house, the books, and of course, the humans, and just
tossing in a lit Molotov cocktail.
Finally it looked as if we were clean again. I had been
lucky to avoid them in my hair, but we always de-loused
everyone’s hair just to be safe. My car was not running
well, so I rented a car to take the band (and daughter) to
Canada for the weekend for a gig. We’d just crossed into
Quebec, the guitarist was driving and my daughter started
crying in the back seat. We stopped, took a good look, and
indeed, she was re-infested. I went into overdrive, the
next stop the drugstore, then our hotel, all the time
having a conversation with myself that boiled down to:
”Jesus God how do we keep from infesting the hotel, never
mind this damn car?”
So we register, get into our room, and daughter and I strip
down to underwear, piling the goo on our head. The bathroom
in our hotel room is huge, mirrored on all sides, creating
surreal images as my daughter stomps around the room,
fizzing with frustration.
“Mummy, can I say a bad word?” she finally sputters.
“Oh, honey, this is exACTly why people say bad words! You
go right ahead.”
She tore around the bathroom oozing goo down her neck,
stamping out her rage, rolling out a very impressive
collection of curses for an almost-six year old. I finally
joined her in mid-stomp, letting out my own frustration at
having to deal with this aGAIN, and in the middle of a
performance weekend, just for laughs. Our impromptu
‘curse-you-lice’ dance continued until we were both
laughing so hard we could no longer breathe. Then we washed
the goo off and prayed we’d gotten them all (this time we
had, but we didn’t know that yet!), and put on a smile for
the nice people all weekend. Ask me where she became the
road warrior she is today. In a bathroom, in Valleyfield,
Quebec, cursing like a longshoreman, when she was five.
As we toweled off, I reminded her that “This was a special
time to use those words. If you say those words in front of
your little friends, their mommies won’t like it and they
won’t let you play with them, so be very careful. When you
are an adult, you can decide how to talk, but for now,
adults will judge you if you curse.”
She never seemed to have a problem with that injunction,
and with an inborn sense of drama, grew up knowing how and
when to color her language. She's played many Shakespeare
roles, and has a honed and literate collection of curses.
However, when she works as a nanny, she stows that gab and
even corrects MY language if I’m sloppy around her charges.
She takes her job seriously. But, hanging out after hours
with her housemates and boyfriend at a bar, she un-censors
herself. She’s an adult, and she can speak as she chooses
when she chooses.
She has a strong sense of who she is in the world, and
isn't shy. At age eight, she declared to a friend at a
house party, “Oh, we’re not poor. We’re boHEMian!” I backed
out of the room, shaking with laughter. She got it, even
then, that the artist’s life is a choice that would look
like different things to different people, depending on
their own world view. And she grew up talking to academics,
actors, musicians, scientists, and thinkers, so she had no
doubt of her own worth in the world from early on.
But, while she has no trouble taking her own space, there
are those who would deny her that freedom based on her
gender. Apparently there are language police everywhere,
and they aren’t afraid to police and shame total strangers,
particularly female strangers, even in public places like
restaurants. She recently posted the following status on
her Facebook profile:
"I just got told by a man at a restaurant that my language
was "atrocious for a woman and you shouldn't speak like
that." I was speaking no differently than my male friends.
I told him to fuck off and that he had no right to tell me
or any other woman how to speak. Because I'm a fucking
lady, dickwad. #yesallwomen"
Yes, my dear, you presented your best efforts, with a full
flourish, to the most deserving douchebag of the day. He
had absolutely no right to chastise you and you shamed him
properly for his bad behavior, rather than accepting his
blaming and shaming you.
He, of course, walked away thinking he was absolutely right
and that you were a barbarian bitch. [Ooo- BAND NAME!]
Still, you weren’t ever going to be anything other than an
example to him, anyway. But, let's follow this experience
to it’s proper conclusion. The mere existence of guys like
him is why women need to VOTE. That's the take-away here.
And here’s a little gem - another curse you might want to
add to your colorful list:
“May lightning strike your ZIPPER!”
© October 2014, Donna Hébert. All rights reserved.
--------------------------
Donna Hébert
Fiddle instructor: Smith & Amherst Colleges
413-658-4276 • Email • Website: Teaching, Fiddling
Demystified publishing, blog
BANDS
-- Panache Quartet - with Andrea Beaton, Jane Rothfield
& Véronique Plasse
-- Mist Covered Mountains - Trio with Molly Hebert-Wilson
& Max Cohen
-- Groovemama - Great Groove Band coaches at Old Songs
& Philly Folk Fests
-- Duo with Max Cohen - concerts, workshops with guitarist
& singer Max Cohen
-- Chanterelle - Franco-American fiddle & songs with
Josée Vachon
-
Contents
- Memoir
-
Essay
- Révolution Française
- Wild Strawberries
- Their Black Aprons
- Faith/fidèles
- Les noces américaines
- A RARE MAN/UN HOMME RARE
- Une Superstition Rouge/A Red Superstition
- Maïs de Crème/Creamed Corn
- The French Dog/Le chien français
- Acadians of the Early Settlements
- Author of Change - Anne Hebert
- Franco Women: Cultural and Community “Glue”
- Connections: Jewish and Franco American Women
- A French Heritage Woman
- Searching
- Franco-American Woman in 1910
- “It’s A Good Life if You Don’t Weaken”
- Kickin’ it Cajun Style
- My Aunt Rita's Cross
- La Croix de Ma Tante Rita
- Teaching the baby to swear
- “I Didn’t Know I was French”
- EVA TANGUAY
- Poetry
- Fiction
- Offering Gender
- Interview
- Speeches/Public Presentations
- Journalism
- Plays/Performance
- Events/News
- Research
- Reviews
- Realia
- Recipes
- Photography
- Art
- Children's Stories
- Testimony/Témoinage
- Multicultural Pens
- Other Writings