I have to admit, since moving to the West Coast I miss cursing a little bit. The Big Apple is the swearing capital of the world, and I think New Yorkers find it cathartic to spew profanity on the gritty streets of the ballsiest city in the world. Swearing is such a crucial part of New York culture, right up there with bagels and egg creams, and the F word, especially, has become essential to the New York City vernacular. A glimpse into the typical New Yorker’s work day:
On the daily commute: “Watch where you’re going, motherf—–!”
Analyzing problems: “There’s no way outta this one. We’re totally f—ed.”
Unwinding after work: “You wouldn’t believe the f—ing day I had!”
After getting my journalism degree, I was excited to work at a newspaper, because I’d romanticized those stories about foul-mouth reporters working into the wee hours of the night in cigar-smoke-filled newsrooms, and celebrating a big story at the tavern down the street. My luck, as soon as I got a job, cigarettes, three-martini lunches and office hookups were replaced by salad bars, Diet Coke and bi-annual sexual harassment seminars. However, the cursing, although not as prevalent as it had been in the His Girl Friday days, remained intact.
The best example of New Yorkers’ penchant for profanity is when, a couple weeks after 9/11, the fearless editors of The Onion printed the only headline that could match the intensity of those unthinkable atrocities. The words, in bold-faced caps, sat atop a photo of the United States engulfed in flames, overlaid with crosshairs:
“HOLY F—— SH–” (And they didn’t replace the letters with dashes.)
Like New Yorkers, writers understand that profanity is sometimes the most accurate form of expression. Sometimes their raw prose is lauded, but other times it is criticized for being uncreative. Writer Kathryn Schulz recently defended the practice of using swear words in literature with her “Ode to a Four-Letter Word” in New York Magazine. She wrote, “Writers don’t use expletives out of laziness or the puerile desire to shock or because we mislaid the thesaurus. We use them because, sometimes, the four-letter word is the better word—indeed, the best one.”
Apparently author Adam Mansbach thought the F word was the best choice for his best-selling picture book, Go the F*** to Sleep. A play on Goodnight Moon, this book is not intended as a bedtime story for children, but as comic relief for bleary-eyed parents struggling with the challenges of getting some grown-up time at night. Even better than reading Mansbach’s hilarious lyrics is listening to the audio version of Go the F*** to Sleep, narrated by actor Samuel L. Jackson. What a hoot to hear the bad-ass assassin from Pulp Fiction recite lines such as this, with lullaby music in the background:
The cats nestle close to their kittens now. The lambs have laid down with the sheep. You’re cozy and warm in your bed, my dear. Please go the f— to sleep.Telling us kids to “go the f— to sleep” isn’t something my parents would’ve done when we were little, but I wouldn’t have put it past my grandma. Nanny thought it was OK to sling all the affanculos she wanted because she was swearing in Italian—an indecipherable dialect, no less—and therefore it didn’t count. There was one particular curse phrase she’d use repeatedly, the way one would tell someone to “Go to hell,” but nobody knew what she was truly saying. It wasn’t until my sister’s Italian-born boyfriend overheard her one day and went pale. He pulled us aside and informed us that our innocent-looking grandma was instructing people to sodomize themselves. Cover your ears, people, Nanny’s in da house!
Since moving to San Francisco and having kids happened for me around the same time, I pretty much went cold turkey on the swearing. I avoid cursing in front of my kids, with the recent exception of calling a driver who cut me off a “banana ass” (thanks for that clever phrase, Aunt Joanie), and I usually remember not to use any profanity while talking to my peace-loving, yoga-practicing San Francisco friends. But every now and then, my inner Snooki will emerge.
Like this morning. I had waited 10 minutes for the elevator in a department store, and when it finally arrived I graciously let everyone out before even thinking about going in. But as the last person was exiting, the doors began to close and no one inside the elevator made an attempt to keep them open for me. A second before the doors completely shut, I yelled, “Godamnit!” The way the people around me looked at me, you’d have thought I’d stripped my clothes off and pulled out a handgun.
So these days I’m “irritated” instead of “pissed off.” I am “unlucky,” instead of “shit out of luck.” And “in trouble,” rather than “royally screwed.” It’s not so much fun to be ladylike, is it?
And it’s interesting that my kids, now 8 and 6, can’t even identify the “bad” words. Sure, my son has once or twice yelled “Jesus Christ!” or “Godamnit” after stepping on a Lego or dropping his ice cream, but haven’t we all? My daughter, at age 8, hasn’t even come close to forcing me to wash her mouth out with soap. In fact, after school one day she told me how kids in her class were debating what the “F word” means. She said with a snicker, “Mom, I think I know what the word is…Fart!” She was so proud of herself for figuring it out that I didn’t have the heart to tell her she still has a lot to learn. Maybe we should do a mother-and-daughter weekend in the South Bronx.
Meanwhile, the other day during a group playdate, one of my friend’s kids got angry at his sister and blurted out that she was an “ass—-” My friend, in a move worthy of an Olympic sporting event, quickly grabbed him and put her hand over his mouth so that he never completed the word. But we all knew what he was going for. And I hate to say it, but instead of being shocked, I laughed with relief. There just might be hope for this generation after all.
That’s all I have to say on the topic of swearing. Thanks for reading. But don’t even think about logging off until you leave a fucking comment.
[This article was previously published as part of the “Lady and a Red Typewriter” column in 2011.)
