Curses, Foiled Again!

I like to think that I curse far less than many other people I know or hear. There is the occasional “damn” and some other curse words muttered under my breath. But, for the most part, I avoid the really bad words. You know the ones I mean. . . . I grumble a lot, and I have been accused by my daughter of having “a tone” sometimes when I speak. But not of cursing too much.

I think my reluctance to curse was implanted in me by my parents, who were pretty puritanical when it came to bad words. I can remember a time when I came home from a hard day of first grade with a tough vocabulary question for my parents to answer. That day in the boys’ room, I had spied a four-letter word that began with “F” written in magic marker above a urinal. I said the four letters over and over in my mind to make sure I remembered them. Then I came home hoping to get help in solving the mystery.

At the dinner table, I spelled out the new word, and my parents, almost in unison, said, “Never use that word!” I received a similar response on another occasion when I asked my grandmother for the meaning of a curse word in Yiddish that I had heard. What I got, in both cases, was admonition instead of definition. Luckily, I was able to learn the meaning of both words, and many more, “on the street.”

One way to clean up the dirty words

Still, over the years, I have stayed a little squeamish about using the really bad words. You know the ones I mean. . . . For example, many people have told me that the show Veep on HBO (is it still playing?) was really good. I watched one episode and was so disturbed by watching a female Vice President and later President using “the F word” over and over, that I never tuned in again. (Lest you think that I am alone in being prudish, I can remember the time when my parents visited many years ago, and we thought we would entertain them by watching an episode of The Sopranos. They both shut down completely after the first “F word” barrage. Oh well.) Let me note that I am not proud to make these revelations.

I’ve had two funny recent experiences that involved curse words. A few weeks ago, Audrey and I went with friends to see a powerful off-Broadway show called Jesus Hopped the A Train about two prisoners who converse with each other at Riker’s Island as they await a trial or a sentencing for murders they committed. The play opens with one of the prisoners on his knees trying to say the Lord’s Prayer. He begins, “Our Father, who art in heaven, Harold be they name.” He knows that there shouldn’t be any mention of someone named Harold, but can’t remember just what word to use instead. As he curses at himself out loud, we hear voices off stage, yelling “Shut the F--- up!” The curse exchange goes on for at least a minute. The audience reaction is a mixture of surprise and laughter and maybe a little discomfort. And I’m just imaging what my parents would be thinking if we had brought them to the play.

"Harold be thy name"

I am also thinking about how that play would go over if we took it on in the play reading class that I attend every Wednesday. We non-actor actors sight read plays aloud, taking parts assigned to us by the teacher. If we’re reading contemporary plays, the “F word” has a way of slipping in occasionally. We actors brave our way through the language, and, secretly, I think we enjoy being free to let out a curse. However, one class member dropped out a few years ago when she couldn’t take it anymore.

Then, last Monday night, Brett, Amanda, and I attended a game between the New York Knicks and the Los Angeles Clippers. Going to the game was part of my birthday present from my kids. It was a fun night. I paid only for my transportation. I didn’t even have to leave my seat once I settled into it; Brett made a trip to the concession stand and delivered a bucket of popcorn and a Diet Coke right to me.

Behind us was a particularly vocal Knicks fan, who was Israeli. Not that unusual in Manhattan. Both her cheers and negative comments were filled with a mixture of English and Hebrew. However, when her Knicks favorite Kristaps Porzingis missed a shot or got called for a foul, she had only one thing to say —“Shit!”

I guess some words work in any language. And I guess there are right times to curse, no matter what my parents and grandmother taught me. Like when you just can’t remember what name fits in the Lord’s Prayer or when Kristaps Porzingis misses an easy shot.