Of F-Bombs and Freedoms

So, all year my creative writing class and I have been going around and around about the ubiquitous (well, not ubiquitous, but almost daily by a small handful of students) f-bombs and other expletives hurled during sharing time.  The "bad" language is not being used to bully other students or put anyone down.  It's usually just pure expressionism, anger and frustration expressed about human hypocrisy and the breakdown of policy, reasoning, common sense, respect or kindness.  It doesn't personally bother me, but as a professional in a public school, and as a teacher of (ideally) good writing, I must pause and consider the cost/benefit of allowing such liberties.

Classmates have privately and openly asked these students to tone down the use of "fuck."  I don't think they necessarily are offended by a single use of the word; they just seem tired of the daily barrage.  So I outlawed it for a few weeks, just as a little break, since we're all "forced" to be in that room together.  But it spontaneously came back. If Jurassic Park has taught us nothing else, it is that chaos will always find a way.

Well, now it turns out that in this era of accountability, and creating "college and career readiness" in my students, I can support my practice of permissiveness.  Check out this article which cites a study that shows that dropping a few f-bombs in the workplace lowers stress and increases group solidarity.  In terms of reducing jihadist threats, vandalism and off-task behavior, group solidarity has to be at the top of the list of school priorities.  Why else have pep rallies?   

In celebration of my newfound classroom liberalism, I offer my favorite literary manifestation of f-word frivolity and other crassness, David Sedaris's essay "You Can't Kill the Rooster" published in (I'm pretty sure...) Me Talk Pretty One Day.

Click image to link to my highly intellectual wordle.

Ode to the Inappropriate

So, I keep bursting out in laughter this evening, because the chant "Knife or Banana?  Knife or Banana?" is going through my head.  Endlessly.  Thanks to my husband chanting it all day long after watching a rerun of Tosh.0 last night.


I keep giggling because I can't believe that something so hopelessly inane is stuck in my mind.  I suppose someone more intellectually-minded could find some kind of Freudian interpretation of why I keep laughing because "Knife or Banana?" is stuck in my head.

And so, because I have a blog with which to post, I began to reflect on my personal enjoyment of male-oriented humor that is inappropriate fare at the dinner table at Thanksgiving.  In fact, I think my enjoyment of this kind of humor is a good part of the reason why I married my husband.  He never stops.  If an image, scrap of conversation or song lyric can be interpreted or completely rewritten to include a double entendre, or an outright mention of boobs or male genetalia, he will be on it like white on rice.

One secret that will not surprise those who know me is that, although I was always incredibly intimidated by the stoner types in junior high and high school, I was always incredibly entertained by the hilarious stoner types.   The ones who gave the teachers just a little bit of shit-- not enough to be completely disrespectful and embarrassing, but the ones who kept up an ongoing banter that just slightly subverted the educational process.  You know, the ones who, when a teacher was sitting on the corner of his desk with his hands in his pocket, would ask the teacher if he liked to shoot pool, or play ball. 

Is it possible that my affinity for such cinematic classics as Joe Dirt, Wayne's World, and Superbad are a sort of internal psychological feminist backlash?  Or does it make life just a little easier to broadly paint all men as perpetual self-absorbed and body-part-oriented teenagers?  Perhaps it is something more passive than that.  A complete intellectual abandon that allows me to laugh my ass off even though I know better.  The question I often ask myself is:  is it okay to be a (highly entertained) consumer of these cultural products if I do know better?  If not, well, then let my indulgences be our little secret and I'll keep on laughing.

Frank and Beans



There's Something About Mary
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