Normal dirty words

When I picked Laura up today, she bounced into the car just dying to tell me about the really cool movie they watched at school today, even though it had some bad words. “What movie? What bad words?” I asked, thinking to myself, “Good Lord, they’re only in the fifth grade! What’s that teacher doing?” Turns out they watched some western to see the landscape, as they’re studying ranching and the westward expansion, the Homestead Act, and all that good stuff. I wondered, just a bit, why, if they were watching the movie only for the landscape, the teacher felt compelled to warn them that they would hear some of these proverbial “bad words” and then play those sections—why not just mute the sound?

Not that I have a problem with bad words, per se, being a fan and collector of words both good, bad, and hard to pronounce. And it’s certainly not as if Laura’s never watched a movie at home that included any slightly profane language. Or said any herself. One of my sister-in-law’s favorite stories comes from when Laura was about Will’s age, when she was watching The Little Rascals with my mother. The kids were trying to pull up some blinds or something, over and over, and as they kept messing up, Laura pronounced in this very solemn and matter of fact way her judgment on their efforts: “Damn.” We’re neither prudes nor innocents. But still. Why exactly are they doing this in class?

“What bad words?” I repeated.

“The a-word and the h-word,” Laura said, still juggling her bookbag and seat belt. “Just the normal dirty words. The ones you always hear.” Oh dear. And then we both were laughing.

I missed my opportunity for the Real Parenting Lesson of the day, though, because she went on to tell me that while she did in fact hear the a- and h-words, they didn’t get to the part of the movie that had the f-word, and what exactly was the n-word?

By the time she asked this question, we were turning onto the big busy road into Rolling Hills, where I really have to pay attention if we’d like to avoid being flattened by a log truck, and while I am certainly prepared to discuss the n-word and its implications, given that I teach Huckleberry Finn and Frederick Douglass pretty regularly, I’d really rather not do this in traffic with a three-year old repeating key words afterwards at random intervals and possibly later in company. And I’m guessing the fact that she didn’t ask about the f-word means she’s heard it, also a matter of some concern, I’ll confess. So I asked her to wait until we got home and ask the question again. With cooking dinner, Laura’s friend Molly calling, getting out the terracotta jack-o-lanterns, bathtime and paper grading . . . well, Laura’s been asleep but I’m still up thinking about the question I didn’t answer.

Yet.

And last week she was asking for a definition of virgin. I guess we’re in for it now.