Vocabulary Diet
My son and I swap notes about things we’ve appreciated on Netflix. I’d rather not waste my time sampling undesirable shows, so I lean on him for advice. He knows my tolerance level for “gunk” (gratuitous violence) and, generally speaking, what I might consider funny.
He has recommended stand-up comedians that I really appreciate. Trevor Noah and Mike Berbiglia come to mind. I, in turn, have suggested Hannah Gadsby and John Leguizamo, both of whom have the capacity to stun their audience by suddenly being dead serious — interrupting the stream of humor to make a grave point. (Leguizamo inspired me to read Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States:1492—Present. I should finish it, but the gunk factor was so strong I couldn’t get past Columbus. We have an awful history.) Maybe solemnity is not my son’s thing.
But he has also recommended some programs I find a tad offensive. Like male comics who use the word “bitch” to refer to a female of the human species. I think it’s acceptable for a woman to affectionately refer to her girlfriend as bitch, but I am always offended when a man uses the word to denote a woman. In any circumstance. Much like an African American person can refer to a kindred spirit as “nigga,” but a white person would be out of line in doing so.
And then there are the comics who produce at least one grammatical conjugation of the f-word in each and every sentence. This suggests to me these performers have distinctly limited vocabulary. Swear words inserted for emphasis work. But when they’re used for filler, they weaken the comedic effect. I might watch them — and might even chuckle — but even as I laugh, I’m filing the performer in the “less intelligent” column of my mental Netflix ledger.
When my husband and I lived in a small university town in Louisiana, our house was across the street from “Tommy” who was a nice guy, but couldn’t seem to make a single sentence without at least three formations of the f-word (although he got bonus points for using more than one conjugation in a single phrase). You had to sort through the superfluous lingo to find the buried message. In other words, the freakin’ mutha freaker couldn’t freakin’ form a freakin’ thought without the word “freak” to freakin’ save his freakin’ life. Listening was laborious.
Now, don’t get me wrong—I sometimes swear like a sailor* in my own home. It feels good. A release of pent-up energy. But when I speak in public, I try not to garble the idea with an abundance of profanity. Mucking up the message with a slew of swear words can leave the listener poking around for the intent like combing through the snack mix for the really tasty garlic bagel chips amid the abundance of peanuts and Chex cereal. Better to serve a bowl of nothing but the desirable bites…
…Unless I’m talking with a girlfriend about a Supreme Court ruling that moves women back to the dark ages. Or commiserating with an Arkansas teacher who might be arrested if Howard Zinn’s history book was found in her classroom. In some instances it just feels good to add emphasis to one’s dismay and bewilderment with emphatically produced profanity.
Some folks say you are what you eat. Maybe, generally, you are what you speak, too. (And you don’t want to have to eat your words.)
* My apologies to sailors. Old idioms die hard. If I’ve offended you, go ahead and file me on the less intelligent side of your ledger for columnists.