I swear not to swear

“Stupid f***ing freshman,” he growled, “who the f*** do you think you f***ing are? Watch where the f*** you’re going.”

Muttering a quick “My bad,” I ducked back into the flow of hallway traffic. During class, I thought about his words and realized that it’s easy to use bad language.

I thought about all the stories I’d told, and realized that when I cut out the bad words, I was left with a text as bland as a second-grade phonetics book. A conversation about “the bleeping unfair teacher” became about “the unfair teacher.”

Why did I have to rely on profanity to make my stories sound more exciting? The New York Times would never publish the f-word. President Obama didn’t have to use it in his “Yes We Can” speech to get elected. Neither did Martin Luther King Jr. They could make a strong point without an f-bomb for emphasis.

My friends and I started using profanity regularly in middle school. Ironically, we were the good kids. Looking back, the biggest appeal of bad language was that it gave us a chance to rebel against the constant expectations of honor roll certificates and A-plus papers.

I was proud that I swore the most

My friends’ mouths were pretty bad—but no one could outdo me. When my friends introduced me, they said, “and this is Hannah, with the potty mouth.” I didn’t feel bad about it—it was refreshing to come out of a classroom and lash out verbally about a teacher. I didn’t tag desks, I didn’t listen to heavy metal or dye my hair—swearing was my rebellion.

One day a student I had just met told me, “It seems like you throw in at least one cuss word per sentence!” I laughed it off, but her comment bothered me. Her tone made it obvious that she didn’t appreciate my language, while I had thought everyone liked how I told my stories. However, even this didn’t prevent me from cussing.

What made me try to stop were my younger  brothers: 13-year-old Eric and 11-year-old David.

One day sophomore year, I overheard them arguing. “Eric, can you stop tapping your foot?!” David shouted.

“Shut the f*** up!” Eric responded.

Before I knew it, I was roaring, “WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?” Eric flinched as I slapped his arm.

“What the h*** did you do that for?!” Eric yelled back.

When my parents found out what he said, they took away his beloved GameBoy and said, “That is a bad word, and we do not have bad words inside this house.”

They explained that people didn’t respect you when you talked “like a gang member.” Eric tuned them out, nodding at intervals to get things over with. However, my parents believed they had convinced him to stop swearing.

Later that night, I remembered how when I was a fifth grader I told someone to “shut up” in front of my mom. My mom was shocked and scolded me. I suddenly realized how I must sound to the rest of the world—immature. I knew the way I felt about my brother was exactly what my mother must have felt when I used “shut up.” I never wanted anyone to feel that way about my language again.

Now, I would like to tell you that I never used a bad word again … but I can’t.

It was really hard to stop

Often, my stories would start, “So one day, I was so f***ing late for class …” then stop immediately as I realized my mistake. My friends didn’t know I was trying to cut back on cussing, resulting in many impatient stares.

I kept my crusade to myself because I couldn’t stand the thought of someone knowing I couldn’t stop cussing. After several weeks, I was failing dismally. Every day before I would go to bed, I would think about my progress. The entire time, I didn’t have one curse-free day.

Finally, I told one of my close friends. “Janet, do you think I cuss a lot?”

She gave me the “Are you seriously asking me that question?” look. I cringed, but didn’t back down.

“Not at all,” she said.

“Really?!”

“No, you idiot!”

I sighed. “Janet, I want to try and stop cussing. Do you think you could let me know every time I said something vaguely not PG?”
She seemed surprised. “Sure Hannah. I’ll even slap you, so the message really gets through to you.”

I rolled my eyes. “Thanks.”

Sure enough, weeks passed, new bruises bloomed (thanks, Janet) and then faded, and people noticed that I swore less. I’m not advocating abuse among friends, although it may be effective. All I needed was a little support, and maybe a little discipline.

As for my brother, I had one of those “serious talks,” which he mostly ignored.