Vocabulary Lesson
3/31/04 (#23)
If I had to identify a single moment that led to strife in my first marriage, it would be the day I called my wife a slut. I recall the scene perfectly---summer evening in the Gagnon's yard, everyone enjoying the company of friends and the long awaited warmer weather, and foolishly I released that word into the conversation.
Upon hearing the word, my wife looked at me incredulously, unable to believe that I was capable of such a comment. She asked me if I knew what I had said, a generous offering of a graceful exit, and in what I remember as my earliest experience with the danger of prideful stubbornness, I stood by my comment. She stormed off.
Stephanie and I were 10 years old when we got married earlier that year.* My best friend Robert was the pastor, looking very much the cleric with a white button-down shirt worn backwards so that he sported a stiff white collar, though in trade he had limited mobility of his arms for the duration of the ceremony and was unable to fully gesticulate with the World Book Encyclopedia, volume S that we had substituted as a bible. (Z was too thin to pass for The Good Book.) The bride's best friend Gayle was the maid of honor, as well as the caterer (oatmeal cookies and HiC fruit punch). The ceremony was held in the hallowed sanctuary of Stephanie's garage, a space recently converted to a stock room for her Mom's (Mrs. A) burgeoning No-Sugar dietary food business. We rearranged the boxes to clear a corridor that allowed a festive walk down the aisle, unknowingly making Mrs. A's next month-end inventory a frustrating procedure. It was a wonderful ceremony. At the reception on Mrs. A's back patio, we celebrated and swam until I heard Mom calling me home for dinner. So much for the honeymoon. I never even kissed the bride.
The worst part of the name calling incident? The correct answer to "Do you know what you just said?" was "No, I certainly do not." Being 10 years old at the time, the word was new to my vocabulary, one that I had heard used but had not yet gleaned its full definition from the various contexts in which it had been spoken. After all, "slut" is not a word used with the strict rules of syntax to which words like "pejorative" or "jocularity" must adhere; it possesses the broader, catch-all characteristics of its nastier 4-letter cousins. Since my tutors for this vocabulary lesson were the teenagers in my neighborhood, it's no wonder I was not aware of the finer points of the definition.
I called her the loathsome word because she had been hanging around with new friends from the next neighborhood north along Pike Avenue, and I was old enough to know what jealousy felt like but was still unable to categorize it as an emotion. As such, I was jealousy's pawn, and I was frustrated that Stephanie exhibited thoughtless disregard for our vows when cavorting with her new friends. Had I been more articulate, I could have explained that she was my version of the mythical girl-next-door, the first crush of my life, and that I wished it had been us spending time together, that summer and for always.
Instead, I wielded that awkward word like a child of a warrior trying to brandish the sword of his father. It felt empowering to hold it in my hands, to imagine myself as a master of it, yet a child holding a weapon of that size is helpless to maneuver it, and as such, all that I managed to do was clumsily sever my friendship with Stephanie.
The next morning, I made the walk of shame down Pocahontas Lane to apologize. (I had not informed anyone of the previous night's event, so in retrospect I am grateful to my parents for having instilled in me a desire for atonement: For the poor sense to call her the name, I take the blame; For the good sense to know an apology was needed, I give them the credit.) I arrived at Stephanie's front door carrying what felt like 200 pounds of weight on my 60 pound frame, and it only grew heavier when Mrs. A answered the door with an expression that unmistakably intimated that Stephanie had informed someone about the previous night's events. I was dumbstruck. It was hard enough to face Stephanie, but the mother-in-law? It was fortunate that I had not yet been exposed to the myriad cartoonish images of mothers-in-law** that I would later experience courtesy of the American cinema industry, otherwise I have no doubt I would have fallen over backwards while the narrator yelled "Timber!". Mrs. A opened the door (I subtly flinched), reached out and squinched my cheeks together like a sit-com grandmother might (nothing subtle about that next flinch), and said "Such foul words from such a cute mouth." She called to Stephanie, excused herself with a courtesy that might not be considered necessary for 10 year olds, and I was face to scowling face with the first girl of my dreams.
I recall absolutely nothing of the apology itself. I do feel safe in guessing that it did not qualify for inclusion in History's Best Apologies, unless the editors of that book find repeated use of "um" and "er" to be endearing. But I got through it, and I'm glad I did. I hope I can instill the same sense of right and wrong in my own daughter---though I likely won't use this story as an example.
But now 27 years later, I realize that the word in question never did become a part of my active vocabulary. In fact, I think the only time I have ever uttered it is in the telling of this story. As I watch my 18 month old daughter absorb words like a sponge, I wish the same could be true for the handful of other curses that slip so easily from my mouth some days. Maybe I should call Mrs. A ---"I know this sounds odd, but if it's not too much trouble, I need you to squinch my cheeks a couple of times."
* Not to be confused with my current wife Stephanie. I don't think it's a congenital issue with the name, since I have never had any attraction to Stephanie Zimbalist (Remington Steele) or Stephanie Powers (Hart to Hart).
** I think the stereotype is completely false, with my first fictional mother-in-law and my real mother-in-law as shining proof. I'm sure there are some bad ones, but none have given birth to a bride of mine.
©2004 wpreagan
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