I was pretty innocent about swearing until the summer of `1956, when I was seven years old. Oh, I’d heard a few words like “hell,” “damn,” and “son of a bitch,” as part of my uncle’s every-day language. Even with that, he didn’t use those words around me very often. I knew better than to repeat them, especially in front of my mom, dad, and grandma. My parents and grandmas were all Baptists. Not fiery Southern Baptists, but American or Northern Baptists, kind of strait-laced and reserved. I certainly never heard a foul word from any of their mouths.
There was a change in my verbal path at age seven when two brothers, Jimmy and Bobby, moved into the small house in the back of the property we rented. Jimmy was older than my ten-year-old brother, Tommy. Bobby was older than me, but younger than Tommy. They were more worldly than us, but we would only find that out after getting to know them better.
I remember once when the four of us were sitting in a small circle on our gravel driveway next to our house. We were just chatting and telling stories, getting to know each other and scratching in the gravel as we did. After a pause in the conversation, Jimmy said, “Fuck, you guys are fun!”
Tommy and I looked at Jimmy and then at each other. Tommy asked, “What’d you say?”
Jimmy repeated himself more loudly and slowly as though we were hard of hearing, “I said, ‘Fuck, you guys are fun.’”
Being curious, I innocently asked. “What’s ‘fuck’ mean?”
Jimmy looked at Tommy in disbelief. “Is he kiddin’ me?”
“No, he’s serious,” Tommy replied, sounding slightly offended by Jimmy’s question.
“You know, ‘fuck,’ …a man and a woman having sex.”
I still didn’t get it and I didn’t think Tommy did either. I spoke up, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Jimmy followed up with our first introduction to the birds and the bees. “Come on man! You know! It’s where the man puts his dick into the woman’s pussy. Like your mom and dad did to make you!”
That was too much. Neither Tommy nor I were going to tolerate someone talking about our parents like that. We both stood up. Tommy said, “We gotta go in now!” and the lesson was over.
I really don’t remember if I spoke out loud or if it was just my brain screaming, “Not my mom and dad!” I wasn’t just outraged, I was disturbed. Without saying anything else to our new friends, we went into the back door of our service porch, through the kitchen and living room, down the hall, and into our shared bedroom. We sat on our beds dumbfounded, almost in a state of shock. Neither of us spoke. I wanted to put the image of what Jimmy had said out of my mind and I think Tommy did, too. I don’t remember ever talking about it.
I had banned the image from my mind, but the word itself was like a doorway into a world I hadn’t known yet. It was short and concise, and actually felt intriguing as it rolled off my tongue when I repeated it to myself in private. Eventually, I ended up using it in passing conversation with my friends at school a few times. They must have heard it before, because they didn’t ask what it meant and I was glad not to have to tell them.
Over the next school year, swearing became a larger part of my private conversations with friends. It seemed to be a step toward being a grownup. Everyone I played with swore to some extent. When the school year ended, I spent part of the following summer at the family ranch with my mom’s sister Hannah and her husband, CH, who swore casually as though he wasn’t violating any rules of properness. I didn’t swear around him, but I admired him and following his example when I was with friends. Because of him, I was more comfortable with it altogether.
When I got home from the ranch, I found that I had become a little too comfortable with swearing. Once on our service porch I let a bad word slip out when talking to my mom. “Damn, Mom, I sure could use a cold drink of water,” found its way out of my mouth before I realized it was there. I knew I had messed up.
Horrified, she looked at me and said “Timothy Clarke Yearnshaw, you know better than that. You should be ashamed.” She probably knew that I had heard the word from her favorite brother-in-law, CH, so she didn’t give me the full sermon about sinning. I was relieved, but knew I had to ask for forgiveness.
I bowed my head slightly and softly said, “I’m sorry Momma.” I felt the need to come clean and continued, “I know some other words too, that you won’t like,” I confessed.
I looked up a little and saw the look of shock that had been on her face quickly replaced by a more peaceful look of acceptance and forgiveness. I now realize that she was doing her best to act like a Christian. “Honey, you can tell me anything you want if it would make you feel better.” I don’t think she was really prepared for what I was about to confess.
“I’ve used lots of naughty words, I even said the ‘f ‘ word,” I hesitated,… “fuck.” She went silent, looking ashen. Her baby boy then let go with every dirty thought imaginable. It must have taken five or ten minutes, but seemed like hours.
When I finished, she hugged me and patted my back. “Do you feel better now, honey?”
I nodded my head and tried to smile, “Yeah.” We both turned and walked through the kitchen. She stayed there and I continued into my room
Over the years, I have used coarse language regularly when in male company, especially while working. In all that time, I never swore in front of either of my parents again.