Cussing

My grandmother died when I was eleven. Later on, my grandfather married a woman named Nora. One year for my birthday, Nora gave me a little wooden bank. On its side the bank had the following poem:

“Cussin ain’t the nicest thing
And friends to you it sure don’t bring
But if you really have to say them
Here’s a way you’ll have to pay them.”

The next verse was something about numbers of cuss words and nickels, dimes, quarters, you get the picture. It was a small bank and if I had followed the pay scale it would have filled up everyday before lunch, provided I could have come up with the money. You see I was cussing before I can remember. I grew up in an adult world where most of my male role models were just back from World War II. Most of my friends and classmates had the same kind of environment. We all learned cuss words right in with getting potty trained and learning to tie our shoes. We all cussed.

When I got to the fifth grade, I had a woman for a teacher who should have never been allowed into a school. She openly showed preference to the children who lived inside the town limit versus the ‘country’ kids. She was particularly fond of the kids who went to the Baptist church. She was Baptist. Among the many ‘truths’ that she routinely bestowed upon our little pre-adolescent minds was the fact that “pro-fan-i-ty” was the tool of the ignorant person, the person who knew no better way to express themselves. Now I wasn’t dumb enough to cuss in her presence, but that constant harping about how only stupid people cussed did have its effect on me.

Some how I managed to get through all that indoctrination and remained only slightly warped. I went on to finish elementary school, graduate from high school and complete two year of junior college. Cussing all along the way and knowing deep down that I was stupid and would never amount to anything, but continuing to plug along because I did not know what else to do. Then I got to Auburn. Instant ice water bath. Auburn hit me between the eyes like a mule’s kick. I was immediately in over my head, failing everything I was taking at mid-term. I was just about at my wits end. Seemed like the ole Baptist bitch had hit the nail on the head. But fortunately, I was taking physics. I say fortunately, not because I was doing well in physics, I wasn’t. In fact I was failing it right along with my other courses. No, the beauty of physics was that it was being taught by one of the smartest men I had ever met. In addition to being smart, this man cussed. He ranked right up there with my dad and all those other WWII vets. Gradually I began to realize that my physics teacher was about 10 thousand times smarter than my fifth grade teacher. I figured out that while I was in a world of hurt at Auburn, it did not have anything to do with my cussing. I began to work harder, study more and gradually things started to improve. I even managed to get a C in physics that quarter. Eventually I went on to graduate from Auburn.

Sometimes now I look back and wonder where I would be today if my first physics professor at Auburn had been a minister or deacon. If you have school age children, make a point of knowing what their teachers are saying to them. The things that your children's elementary school teachers tell them will have an effect whether they are true or not. Remember, your kids may not be fortunate enough to have a foul mouth physics teacher when they get to college.