Raccoon Toons

Those who know me well may have noticed that I avoid using foul language. As a youth I had a standing arrangement with my best friends who knew that if they swore in my presence they were to receive a painful slug to the arm. Obviously that proved to be of benefit to them as they all became intelligent and upstanding citizens who went on to receive fancy business degrees with fancy jobs and fancy pensions. (We’ll just ignore the fact that I have none of those.)

I imagine that some may have formed their own conclusions as to why I don’t use bad words. Maybe Matt is extra religious or something. Maybe he’s too intelligent and too eloquent in his skills of communication to resort to lazy and undignified coarse language. Maybe he doesn’t really get out much and he actually doesn’t KNOW any bad words…

Well the truth of the matter is, you’re all wrong. And now, I will tell you exactly why I do not use bad words.

It all began (as many of my stories do) back in the days of elementary school. I was in the 3rd grade, and was a clever lad, if I do say so myself.

One day, my teacher Mrs. Radwin approached me during one of the math sections of class. We had been studying long division, and apparently I had been long-dividing like a champ, because Mrs. Radwin desired that I might help one of the students in the class who was struggling with this particular math challenge. Flattered that the teacher recognized my supreme intellect, I obliged.

Mrs. Radwin called a young girl by the name of Jenny Jennings over to my desk and requested that the two of us go outside to one of the picnic benches, where I could impart my great knowledge of all things long-division.

Jenny Jennings was one of the cuter girls in the 3rd grade. She was especially fond of using the swing set at recess and achieved great heights there due to her excellent pumping form. But what she was really known for was her absolute, borderline obsessive, boy-crazy puppy love romance for a boy named Robert. Oh how she loved Robert. And she made sure everyone knew it.

Every conversation it seemed, would center around Robert. If you were a girl she would sit and tell who how wonderful Robert was. How smart he was. How he could do the mile run so fast. And if you were a boy she would sit and ask you for your advice on how to get Robert to like her. Never had I seen such devotion in a 3rd grader.

But today, something about Jenny was different. The two of us sat at the picnic bench and I began to teach her how to do long division. Something was distracting her I could tell, but I was under orders to help her in her math skills, so I continued to press on, convinced that she would soon excel in the subject and that it would all be because of my incredible teaching skills.

Finally in the middle of my discourse, Jenny interrupted me. It seemed she had something to tell me, and nothing–not even long division was going to prevent her from saying it.

“Matthew…” she started. (Yes, I went by Matthew back then.) “I have to tell you something.”

“Um…ok?” I responded…bracing for another lovesick monologue about Robert and her undying love for him.

“I’m kind of scared to tell you,” she continued.

“That’s alright,” I said trying to offer my support. “You can tell me.”

“Well…” she began again shyly. “You see…I…um…”

“Yes?”

“I like you Matthew.”

“Oh.”

“I mean I really like you. I LIKE like you.”

“Oh! You do? Me? I thought you liked Robert?”

“I used to. But now I like you.”

“Oh.” I sat there on the picnic bench taking it all in.

“I like you because you’re so nice to everyone. And you don’t say bad words. You know…like ‘#@*%’ and stuff.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I like you because you’re nice. And you don’t say bad words like ‘#@*%’ and stuff.”

I had never heard that particular word Jenny mentioned, but in this context it seemed it was some sort of cuss word I was unfamiliar with.

“Well yeah,” I said, surprised that simply avoiding swear words had won me the affections of this young girl. “I try not to say bad words.”

“Well that’s why I like you. You’re not like all those other boys.”

“Oh. Well, thank you,” I responded.

For a moment we sat there in silence. Jenny sat there and stared at me with a smile on her face, and those big eyes looking right at me. I remember admiring her for her courage in telling me her feelings.

“Well…” I resumed, “about long division…”

I would soon discover that the word Jenny had cited as a “bad word” was in fact not just any bad word, but the mother of all bad words in the English language. I had never heard it before, and it wasn’t something uttered on our young school playground, but in my young 3rd grade mind I filed it away as a word not to use.

I have no idea what ever happened to Jenny Jennings. But since that moment and throughout the years I have tried to avoid harsh language and cuss words. And while it probably ended any chance I ever had at being a successful actor, sailor, or reality TV chef,  I can’t say that it is a decision I have ever regretted.

So that’s the real reason I don’t say bad words. Not out of any moral decree. Not out of any desire to sound smart or cultured. Not because I want to come off like some saint, and not even because my parents taught me not to use them. But because somewhere back in the 3rd grade is a little girl who liked me because I was nice and didn’t swear. I don’t want to let her down.

Even after all these years I can still see Jenny twist her fingers anxiously as she told me how she felt about me:

“I like you because you’re nice. And you don’t say bad words like ‘#@*%’ and stuff.”

It’s been decades since the 3rd grade. I’ve never said the word once.