Day 9: What the Cuss?

WARNING: This post may have curse words. Obviously. It's a post about cursing.

If you've met me in a professional/semi-professional setting, you probably know me as loud but genuinely well-meaning. I'm talkative, for sure, but I try to be polite.

However, one I know the "coast is clear" (in a manner of speaking), I have the mouth of a sailor and the humor of a 16-year-old boy. Usually, if I feel my audience is more conservative, I curb my tongue and word choice.

Cursing (or as we in the South more often refer to as "cussing") has always intrigued me. When I was 10 and worked on my dad's turtle pond [I'll explain later], we girls started a "Cuss Club". Seriously--that's what we called it. Basically, it was an agreement that whenever we were to side speaking to ourselves, we could say whatever we wanted word-wise, and no one would go and tell one of the bosses. This was less of a deal for some of the other girls, who were in their mid-teens and so my dad and uncle didn't care. For me and my sister, this meant we could say those words we were prohibited from saying at home, and the others wouldn't tell our dad. Thinking back, it's dumb in a way. But another part of me is kind of proud, giving myself the place to experiment with word usage without fear of retribution and learning how to code switch at an easy age.

I really shouldn't have been too worried though about much judgement. In 1998, my cousin Ethan introduced my sister and I to South Park. I can still remember the first episode I watched--"Mr. Hanky the Christmas Poo". I have a vivid memory of being in my aunt and uncle's driveway on New Year's Eve in the back of someone's truck, singing "Kyle's Mom is a Stupid Bitch". Soon after, we introduced South Park to my dad, the same guy who gave me the sense of humor of a 16 year old boy. We didn't get Comedy Central at the house at home, but my uncle's trailer at the pond did. So on Monday nights when my mom went bowling, my dad would take us three kids to the trailer and do work in the shed, taking a break when SP came on. (We also watched WWF and WCW with my dad. Thinking back, it's strange to think I at one time liked wrestling.) For the most part, it was fine, but I do remember when we realized the repercussions of my little brother, 3 or 4 then, repeated Officer Barbrady after he said in the Barbra Streisand episode, "What a bitch!"

When I got to be in junior high, I definitely continued with code-switching and using curse words. I started to use the word "crap" around my parents,something I wasn't allowed to say before. Cody, ever the goody-two-shoes at that age, would gasp when he heard me and tell me I wasn't supposed to say that. I responded snarkily with, "You get a license to crap at 13." My attitude wasn't overlooked though; people apparently reported to my sister how I was talking. I remember her asking me what I was trying to prove.

That's the question that often comes up when people are arguing against curse words: what are you gaining by using these words? While I feel that there is an appropriate time and place for such language, I see no problem in using it, obviously. It's an expression of self that some have wrongly stigmatized.
Now, let me make this clear--I don't go throwing around God's name with all this. Some curse words are still off limits in my book.

I'm going to end this post with my favorite phrases to use in those professional situations as substitutes for curse words:

• fartknocker
• shootamonkey (said really fast)

Feel free to use them as well.

Day 8: You Don't Sound Like It...

Back in November (and once again in the last week of the year), I listened to Terry Gross's interview with Keegan Michael Key and Jordan Peele. While touching on his experience growing up not really knowing his dad, he delved into how his voice has influenced his work:

"...the world has wanted me to speak differently than I speak. You know, I speak like my mom; I speak like, you know, like the whitest white dude; I speak like a Def Comedy Jam comedian doing an impression of a white guy. (laughter) That's how I've, you know, sort of grown up. And I even remember, you know, when I was a kid that, you know, there was a, you know, every now and then you'd come upon somebody who would sort of question how I spoke, whether or not, you know, I was trying to be something I wasn't. It cannot be a coincidence that I decided to go into this career where my whole purpose is sort of altering the way I speak and experiencing these different characters, and I think maybe sort of proving in my soul that the way someone speaks has, you know, nothing to do with who they are. People have, you know, everybody has different accents, everyone has different affectations, everyone is still human." (Here's the link to the whole interview.) 

It was a part of the interview that struck home for me.

When I introduce myself to people, I get asked about my Louisiana and Mississippi roots. Such questions like, "Is that where you grew up?", "Where's your family from?", "Where were you originally from?", and the like. Very similar to questions that minorities often get, based on their race [Disclaimer: not claiming to understand the minority experience, just drawing a correlation].
I get these questions usually after I have spoken for at least a few sentences. And I have a rehearsed little speech, depending on which tier of question it is. How I read a lot as a child, watched a fair amount of TV, didn't have a tee-ton of friends.

This is so very practiced, because I know exactly why I get asked this--because I don't sound like what people expect a Cajun or Bible Belt import to sound like. And I don't sound like a hybrid of the two cultures either. Sure, I elongate my e's and i's when talking quickly, and less often I have a more Louisiana inflection to my words, but mostly? Pretty neutral.

And while that says we expect the population from specific regions of the U.S. to sound like the extremes, it also makes me question my identity, and who I can claim. If others don't see me as part of a certain culture because of my voice, can I say I am part of that culture fully?

Yes and no. Obviously, I consider myself part of these two cultures, as I was an active participant in both of them. But I also can say no. I purposely say words certain ways, to distance myself. A big one for me growing up was saying the word "bayou" as "by-you" (the more generally accepted pronunciation) rather than the same way my peers did, as "by-o". I only used the latter pronunciation when specifically referring to a school in Clarksdale called Bayou Academy. (Had to, otherwise I would have gotten corrected every time) 

It's strange. I adapted to speak a more neutral American accent to fit in with the population at large, but by doing so ostracized myself from those around me. I generalized my own identity.

Now, I think I speak more neutral than my family, but not ridiculously so. My brother, who lived in LA only 9 months before we moved to MS, chooses a word set more native to MS. My sister's word choice is influenced by her 7 years in Alabama. My mother speaks more LA than Cajun, as she's from the outskirts of Baton Rouge, but she still sounds Southern. My dad doesn't sound Cajun to me, much less so than his older brother Junior, who has lived outside LA the same amount of time as my dad but still has a clear Cajun inflection.

Speaking of my dad, when I was with the family at Christmas time, he got a business call. And his voice changed. It became more curt and jilted, more like someone who learned English as a second language. This is probably mostly to him adapting to his clientele's vocal patterns (most are Asian), but it was interesting to hear him code switch so quickly.

Last thought--my internal head voice is so much better than the one y'all hear, and I wish I could show you guys.