I admit that it was a long time ago and I also admit that I had forgotten about my forays into the foul words jungle. The thought of discussing them (again?) came to me when I happened to see a question on a social network site that asked if there are any bad words. Predictably, the answers came back with all the philosophical Sophistry that words are not bad or good since they are nothing but noise. That got me to thinking about my "Bad Word Autobiography." It so happens that it does have stages in it. Some predictable and others just slightly slipping into consideration.
The first stage is the one where you get caught by your mother at a moment when you thought that you were SAFE. It was on the sidewalk near the house. I was sitting in the little red wagon that we had received for Christmas. It was now Spring and we were playing horse and buggy. It was my turn to be in the buggy and my brother's turn to be the horse. Of course I was unhappy with the gait of the "horse" and I was particularly short of a whip. You know, the leather kind that you can snap across the horse's stern when things aren't exactly going to your liking. But I did have the one in my mouth (still do) so I let the "horse" know in no uncertain, loudly shouted terms that I want him to move his *&^)$#@@ stern.
You know, "stern" spelled "A..: Brit style, as in "Move yer bloomin' a...e" (My Fair Lady)
Well, this was at least two decades before Julie Andrews and My Mum happened to be near a window and just the right side of the house.
The whole neighborhood reverberated with the screeching thunder of my mother's pet name for me, punctuated by the order, "Get in here." The rest of the story can be handily wrapped up in the simple averrance that I developed an immediate distaste for Camay handsoap on that very day. I know that the mental allergy to it is still sitting heavily on my being when I walk into a rest room in a family home where Camay is the bar soap of choice. I find myself tasting my punishment all over again. Imagine a lifetime of punishment for three words that were overheard by a foul mouthed parent (yeah, she had a vocabulary, especially in French).
For the rest of my young life I was a rather smooth talker. I used to occasionally slip into fecal phonemes, but not too often. So from about 10 to 40 I was pretty wimpy in my speech. Not my opinions, but my speech.
I had a bad moment for a few years, but not any more.
Back to the "Bad Word" question. I happen to agree that there are bad words. Words are not just "noise." They are also thoughts and a bunch of other things. They also have a social dimension that can't be denied. So yeah, I think that there actually are "bad words."
Take it from me, that Camay taste that I now have in my mouth is presently underlining the truth of that statement.
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