Even lapsed Catholics know not to mess with Lent. I have not been inside a church two solid months, but Lent is a serious business (I follow the pope on twitter though, so I think I’m safe. Sup, Frankie). It’s a commitment. We start the season rubbing burned plants on our foreheads. That’s pretty metal. And I like it better than New Year’s Resolutions because:
1. Catholic guilt is such a better motivator than half baked ideas out of a post Christmas haze (i.e. I’ve eaten a lot of cookies this week, I’m going to be healthy ALL YEAR NOW- this is not logic. This isn’t even guilt. This is your body saying HELP ME.).
2. There’s an actual time limit that doesn’t seem easy but also not unreasonable. Forty days is a blink of an eye, but now that you are consciously aware of it, it feels like an eternity. Time is weird.
3. Now that I’m older and can consciously think of bad habits and improvements I could make to be a better person over the course of forty days (as compared to my mother’s suggestions to her chubby fifth grade daughter “what about giving up carbs?!”) I can actually reflect on why these habits matter and what matters to me to begin with. Lent has real value.
This Lent, I’m doing the unthinkable. I’m giving up swearing.
Most people, upon meeting me, assume I have a saintly mouth (I can no longer tell you what “assume” means— ask me after Easter) and I cannot fathom why. It’s probably the same reason people assume I am a neat and orderly human being, which is laughable. Within two weeks of a new serious friendship, without exception, the other person will inevitably gasp after an expletive rolls off my tongue as naturally as hello (or, dependent on mood, a slew of expletives— I’ll be honest here). This happened so frequently in college it became my favorite joke. “OMG! I cannot believe you just said that!” trailed me wherever I went. It’s not that I am particularly vulgar (I don’t think I am? Self-perception is impossible.) or attempting shock value (believe me, it’s a shock anyone listens or notices at all). All I am saying is that, sometimes, there is nothing more satisfying than a perfectly punched swear. I have had a foul mouth since the fifth grade, to the point that when my two friends decided we should become a “gang” for about a week my cool gang name was “the curser”. SO IMAGINATIVE, but also so Jersey.
When I told my mother I was planning on giving up foul language for Lent I truly thought she would be proud, glad I’m cleaning up my verbal bad habits. Immediately I realized this assumption was deeply incorrect. Somehow it had entirely escaped her notice that her only daughter swears like a sailor in most conversation with her peers or above. “I cannot believe you are in a position where you NEED to give up bad language. That is SO unladylike.” I have promised to be honest, so I will admit to being a committed contrarian, particularly to my lovely mother who does not deserve it. BUT WHY IS FOUL LANGUAGE UNLADYLIKE? Does that make foul language inherently masculine? (Her answer is yes, mine is stop asking stupid questions). I am not giving up foul language in an effort to be more ladylike. My words are of my choosing and I can say whatever, whenever I please. This is because I am a human being, zero modifiers necessary.
I almost gave up giving up cursing right then and there to prove a) language is not predicated on gender, MOTHER (“acknowledge my liberal arts degree!!!”) b) I am a wannabe rebel, and this is how I rebel c) giving up on things is pretty convenient most of the time. But then, with the benefit of feigned adulthood and a humanities based education, I remembered WHY I wanted to give up swearing in the first place. Why is almost always inconvenient, but is ALWAYS important.
I was an English & History major. I love language. I love the way we choose to represent ourselves through verbal and written communication, and I love the way words can look and sound beautiful or disturbing or energizing or depressing. Not the way we say them, but the sound and structure of the word itself. I love how we twist words around to squeeze out every last drop of potential meaning. I love writing and reading and clever lyrics for this reason. I realized that swearing, because it is so satisfying when done correctly and for the right reasons, had begun to replace any art I had in my communication. Four letter words became giant placeholders for much more descriptive words or phrases or even sentences. I no longer challenged myself to express my thoughts creatively, thoughtfully, or even specifically. Adjectives and adverbs and lovely similes have been drained out of my brain in favor of more lethal weaponry in my verbal arsenal. But lethal rarely means superior. So, I’m trying to restructure my communicative strategy.
For the record, I did swear six times on Ash Wednesday (TWO JUST FROM SINGING ALONG IN MY CAR) and have made a swear jar. My mother thought swear jars are where you write down what you wish you could say, and put it in the jar so no one can see but you still got it out of your system. Can’t make it up, friends.
So, my challenge to myself for Lent was to not only be acceptable in the presence of more innocent ears, but to relearn how to communicate in relevant, expressive, and truthfully, fun ways. Because for loving it so much, I don’t use language nearly enough.
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