Monday, July 4, 2011
The Potty-Mouthed Club
I walked down the usual stairs to find all three girls chatting about the usual and just as inconsequentially ecstatic as one can possibly be on an exhausting Sunday afternoon. The agenda was to celebrate a birthday, but, even more important than that, spend time together being girls. They are a bit older now, as am I (though I rank as the oldest by 3-7 years), but relating to one another, on some level, has never been a challenge. No matter the age of the woman, they will still complain about the same generalities and unfairness, they just might be more eloquent in their ability to express exactly what it is they hate and how much they hate it. Of course, with us, no matter how eloquent we might be in academic-face, it soon becomes lost and anything but eloquent in the way we squawk.
The ideas are all there, organized for proper communication; instead we giggle and speak at the same time, incoherently jabbering about men--big or small--school and our families. If the women of The View were a bit more relaxed, and possibly drunk, our display and their show might be frighteningly similar. But I will never understand why anyone would want to spend time watching The View whether the panel are sloshed or the viewer--it is terrible no matter the climate.
I had always wanted to be open and uncensored with these girls, but now that I could, it felt misplaced and almost too crude for comfort. I now understand why my educators would shake their heads at the language we used in the halls during my days in high school. None of it was ever fitting--we abused language as though it were a rite of passage, and one no one could take away from any of us. We had stopped believing in fairy tales, we knew our parents were paying us for every tooth we yanked out of our mouths (a disgusting form of selling our bodies for financial support, if anyone were to ask me--though no one does), and we wanted the high of being naughty without the consequences of anything severe.
It is the sensation one experiences upon their first taste of a curse--sweet like the forbidden fruit, but one that only felt forbidden because of what Mommy and Daddy said. It was something adults did, and when one reaches the incredibly awkward stage of teenager-hood, all one has are their insecurities and futile ways to prove themselves as adults to the older men and women who will never understand them.
With a mother who cringes at informalities, whether genuinely friendly or brazenly hostile, it is no wonder my younger friend would rather throw religious-caution to the wind and say, "To Hell with censorship!" She took quite kindly to the idea of "bitch" being a term of endearment, and the word "fuck" just another way to bare rebellion against her mother in the most repulsive of manners. These loaded terms are weapons against their imprisonment--one of which they will blame on their parents and that thing they are made to call a "home," but will later discover what they really hated, was the cruel joke life had been holding against them: their shameful hormones. No matter how hard parents may try, everything they are taught, a child will firmly oppose until life lends them too much disappointment and not enough love and self-taught wisdom. Experience does little for treating a yearning mind when the experience itself is just as small as the child living it.
And while my idea of a "fucking good time" and theirs are highly different, we are in the golden years of our lives, and they are living their lives with hands cradling the edge and peering over curiously, but with the fear of actually toppling down. I am just here to monitor their abuse of pizza, Cola and make sure they only like the idea behind using the word "fuck" and not the action that actually lies behind the term--I have to be a mindful friend and one willing to give advice.
"[I] am the oldest, after all." I have the most life experience out of all of them.
And like a drunk Joy Behar, the idea that I am their eyes and ears for what is outside of this town, is a frightening thought--maybe someone who refuses to encourage their intake altogether would be more suitable. And before all hope is lost, I will say, hopefully their earthly-savior will arrive before they come to the daunting realization that Kesha is not the perfect role-model for how to live a disease-free, Puritanical life like Mommy wants.