Getting My Swear On

I grew up in a home without a lot of cussing. My brothers and I were taught that a four-letter vocabulary was a sure sign of an inferior brain. When cursing did happen, it was a big deal. My mom, normally soft-spoken, meant business when she let fly with the “double damns.” Dad was more colorful, but less prolific. I’ve never heard him cuss, but I’m told it’s only under dire extremity, like blemishes on paint jobs.

Simply due to upbringing, I don’t tend to swear. It took a long time before I was comfortable even saying “piss.” The s-word still feels dirty and the f-word is verboten. That being said, there’s something that happens to you when you’re in a different country trying to learn a different language. Ruyman and I both have adopted a saltier method of expression. Ruyman’s having the hardest time with this and has taken to quoting long passages from The King’s Speech. (If you’ve seen it, you know which scene I’m talking about. If you haven’t, you should.) I’ve taken to the softer side of swearing and, like my mother, content myself with Biblical allusions.

One would think that since no one around us is swearing in English, it would be easy for us not to cuss. But nature abhors a vacuum, even one of “hells” and “damns.” The problem is this: in the course of switching back and forth between two languages, there’s a point when words of all kinds fail. With no words and two languages’ worth of frustration, the only sounds that come burbling up from the mess in your head are the words inscribed on every bathroom stall you’ve ever seen. 

The results are shocking, but cathartic. I have to hope that at some point, the cussing will stop, but I have a feeling all that will happen is that we’ll go from swearing in a language no one understands to swearing in a language everyone understands. Damn.