Ch. 13: Babysitters, Bad Words, and F-Bombs
At the end of the day, “Frak da police” doesn’t quite carry the same weight.
“To be a Negro in this country and to be relatively conscious is to be in a rage almost all the time.” ~ James Baldwin
I mentioned earlier how my mother must have had trouble finding babysitters because of all the crazy movies she took us to. I wondered if they even had babysitters in the ’70s.
But then I totally remembered that when we first arrived in Hollywood from Philadelphia, my mother dropped us off at a babysitter daycare. I don’t remember her name. But I have vague memories of a large, Craftsman-style home that backed to the Hollywood freeway and had a large sleeper camper out front.
I would peg my age around six. It was definitely before first grade. Mom would drop us off, go to work, then pick us up later.
And I only have three vivid memories from my time going to that babysitter’s house.
Sleeping from time to time in that cool camper.
Walking to preschool with the other kids unaccompanied (it was a totally different time).
And the time I had my mouth washed out with soap (yes, parents really did that.)
Not only do I remember it happening, I remember how it happened.
I had recently arrived back from walking home. For some reason I don’t remember, the kids told me to say “shit.” I had never even heard that word before. My mother was a nice Christian woman who grew up in the south with strict southern baptist parents. You know for damn sure she never let us say, or even know about words like that.
So, the kids tell me to say “shit” and I say it. Just as the daycare lady was coming outside. She heard me and immediately took me inside, got out whatever was the most popular brand of soap in the early ’70s, and proceeded to wash my mouth out with it.
After the punishment was executed, I remember slowly, and solemnly walking onto the back porch. There I sat, sad and pathetic, with the piquant aftertaste of Palmolive burning my taste buds.
The other kids just stood there looking at me. No one said sorry. No one went to the sitter and said they told me to say it. No one came next to me and put a reassuring hand on me. These little pricks just stood there looking at me the way you’d look at bug dying in the sun. You’re kind of intrigued at the pain it’s suffering, with almost a research scientist level of interest.
I wouldn’t say another bad word again for another four years. It was another one of those distinct memories that stand out. The first time I would purposefully say a bad word was in the fourth grade. While trying to climb a fence, I got my shirt caught and ripped it. Without thinking, I said “it.” The granddaddy of all bad words. The “f dash dash dash” word.
Sam: Did you just say, “the F dash dash dash” word? Nigga, how old are you?From out of nowhere (as usual) was Sam.
Me: Must you always be eavesdropping on my conversations?Sam: This isn’t a conversation Ronald. It’s a book. Conversations involve audible words between two or more parties.Me: So do you have a new lesson in blackness to share with me.Sam: As a matter of fact, I do. And based on that "F dash, dash, dash" shit you just said, I'm here none too soon. So, here is what I want you to do. Every time you have an urge to say “stuff,” I want you to say “shit.” Every time you want to say “Frak” or “freak,” I want you to say “fuck. ”I look a little concerned.
Me: I don’t know Sam, do I really have to curse?Sam: Damn nigga. You like the fuckin' black George McFly? Yeah motherfucker, cuss!Me: Is it your contention that profane language is somehow a necessary component of the authentic black experience.Sam: Despite your “Leave it to Beaver” childhood, I understand you actually do have some black friends?Me: First off, my childhood was actually quite black, thank you very much. But, in answer to your question, yes, I have black friends.Sam: Have you ever been around a group of them for any extended period of time? You know, like at a party, card game, barbeque, game of bones (that would be dominos in case you’re wondering) or some other kind of social exchange with caucasian attendance of 5% or less.Me: Sure. Of course I have.Sam: And in these social exchanges, have you paid attention to how they address one another?Me: I suppose so. Why?Sam: And how often do you hear them say “frak”, “freak”, “stuff” “darn” “dang” “golly”, “gee wiz,” etc. or any of those other nerdy euphemisms you’re so fond of saying?Me: First of all, I don’t say “darn,” “dang” or “golly.” But, again, in answer to your inquiry, no, it’s not a common occurrence that my black friends will talk like that.Sam: Exactly.Me: I just don’t see how dropping f-bombs every other word or using the n-word interchangeably with “dude” will make me more black.Sam: It’s not about making you more black. Trust me on this. You saying “fuck” and “shit” every other sentence is just a drop in the bucket of the work I need to do with yo' ass.Me: So, then what’s it about?Sam: It’s an exercise in releasing your inhibitions. It’s a way for you to get used to making yourself (and the people around you) uncomfortable. To push the envelope. Walk on the edge. For whatever reason, you have a bugaboo up your ass about saying shit that’s got to be said, especially if “shit” is what’s got to be said. And at the end of the day Ronald, “Frak da Police” just doesn’t carry the same weight, if you catch my drift.Me: First of all, I don’t want to “frak” or “fuck” da police. We need police, and the overwhelming majority of them in this country do good work and are good people.Sam rubs his temples as if he’s got a headache. He says softly under his breath.
Sam: Lord, Jesus in heaven, help me with this muthafucka.Me: Besides. I don’t have a problem with saying those words.Sam: Oh yeah. What words?Me: The ones to which you were just referring.Sam: Which are …?Me: The “F” word and the like.Sam: Do you mean to tell me that even now you can’t say them?Me: I just said “Fuck da police” not 30 seconds ago. I have no problems saying it. I can say them just fine. It’s just that I like to use them when it feels more natural.Sam: Really. So, when is that?Me: Hmmm. I guess when I’m angry mostly. I can drop an f-bomb like it’s nobody’s business when I’m mad.Sam: Wow! Really? Like it’s nobody’s business huh? That must be a sight to behold!Me: Make fun of me all you want, but I don’t think whether or not I curse has any bearing on my connection to the issues confronting the black man today.Sam: It absolutely does. And you know why?Me: No. Please educate me.Sam: Because you said that you can drop f-bombs like it’s nobody’s business when you’re mad. Well, Ronald, if you ain’t in a constant state of anger as a black man in the fucked up shit, then brutha, we gotta address that!Me: Oh, I’m angry. That’s for damn sure. I’m just not always at a 9 or 10, that’s all.Sam: Well, you need to dial that shit up to 11 muthafucka.Me: Actually, I just make my “10” angrier.I chuckle at my comedic allusion to “This is Spinal Tap.” As usual. Sam stands. Motionless and unamused.
Sam: I’m going to leave you for now Mr. Dawson. I think I’ve taken just about as much as I can today. But I’m fucking serious. You need to dial that shit up a lot more than you are.And with that, like the last time, he’s gone.
I take a seat, sit back, and stare out the window, pondering Sam’s comments. I can’t help but think that some of what he said actually makes frakking sense.
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