My father says
I shouldn't swear. I can
never tell if it's because
he sees me as a child,
still—which I could
comprehend if not quite
understand—or because
it is unladylike. "Ladylike"
is one of my least
favorite words. Next to
"sorry," and "caution,"
and "should." "Fuck,"
I must admit, is a favorite;
as are "shit," and "goddamn,"
and "you outrageous cunt."
I am not, you can probably
guess, very concerned with
"ladylike." I have read
extensively on the growth and
evolution of this gaggle of
strokes and curves and specks
which, all together, constitute
"language." I have long been
enamored of the sharp
consonant corners of the
words a lady is not supposed
to say. How strange and
lovely to find such satisfaction
in the violent click of teeth
on teeth. How lovely and
strange to have these words
whose meanings shift
with the weight of the
emotions they carry.
I have murmured,
"Fuck," in reverence. I have
yelped, "Fuck!" in a momentary
flash of pain. I have breathed,
"Fuck," through cresting waves
of pleasure. I have sobbed,
"Fuck," into the night, so heavy
with sorrows I cannot bear
to name that it drops into the
dark like a stone. I say, "Fuck"
when I forget, and when I am
worried, and when I am
consumed by immolating
anger. It is, perhaps
not ladylike, perhaps
not civilized, but then, I so
rarely remember civilized
ladies being invited to speak
their minds. So then, perhaps
I am not a lady. It doesn't matter
much when I am in possession of
four letters so much more
malleable, adaptable, all-
encompassing by which I
might define myself.