Forget Political Correctness and Enjoy the Stories

Dad sat in the tattered recliner and relived a childhood memory. As he told the story, I witnessed him return to an earlier time in his life, during the depression, when deals were sealed with a handshake and hard work resulted in simple rewards.

My dad died when I was knee-high to a grasshopper, leaving Mom to raise six children, Sis being the only girl. God rest her soul. I would’ve given an arm and a leg to have what kids now-a-days take for granted. We didn’t have two nickels to rub together so school lunch was out of the question. Most of the time bills were paid by robbing Peter to pay Paul as we lived hand to mouth.

We were piss-poor so to make ends meet, Mom would bake five loaves of bread, a labor of love, and each kid got a slice to carry to school for lunch. If we were lucky, we might get a slab of butter, and if truth be told we were thankful for that as it was better than a kick in the teeth. Once in a blue moon, Mom would break out a jar of homemade jam and that was a special treat. That woman held money tighter than a gnat’s ass. We knew we’d be barking up the wrong tree to whine or ask for more because you can’t squeeze blood out of a turnip.

When the fresh bread came out of the oven my brothers and I were on it like flies on shit or a moth to a flame; we were full of piss and vinegar. Mom or Sis would cool the bread on the shelf and then place it on a board slat and slide it under the bed to store until needed. My brother, Donnie, got the half-baked idea to snatch a loaf. Thinking we had pulled a fast one, we devoured that bread as pleased as punch at our success. When Mom discovered the missing loaf, she went through the roof; we were caught by the short hairs. Denying our sin would have been as effective as pissing into the wind. Quicker than a New York minute, all hell broke loose. We were sitting ducks when she announced, she wasn’t born yesterday and it’s as clear as the nose on my face you boys were in cahoots. We were as nervous as a whore in church because shit was about to hit the fan. There wasn’t a chance in hell it would end well.

Our pleading proved as worthless as tits on a boar and not worth a hill of beans as mom believed actions speak louder than words and proceeded to tan our hides without bothering to say this hurts me worse than it does you. Mom laid down the law and ripped us a new one. At that moment I knew it would be a cold day in hell before I crossed Mom again.

We walked to school when it was colder than a witch’s tit. But there was no reason to get our knickers in a twist because there weren’t no busses and Ma sure didn’t have money to fill the gas tank. Times may have been tough, but we thanked our lucky stars for family.

__________

Growing up I never questioned the meaning of words in Dad’s stories. I simply inferred the intent through the context, explanations unnecessary. When conversations replay in my head, I appreciate the colorful dialogue, clichés, and idioms. The meaning of each phrase was clear even if I didn’t understand the origin. Unfortunately, literal interpretations lead listeners to assert racism, offensive intent, or insidious behavior.

When I used the expression, “sucking hind tit” with my daughter in the room, she looked at me astonished. She paled, stared and when she regained her composure exclaimed, “Mom, don’t ever use that expression again!” Of course, I interpreted this as an invitation as I made sure to use it another dozen times throughout the day. I love to torment my children. But I also took a moment to explain the meaning behind the expression.

Unlike the sterile, censored, politically correct language of our day, the clichés woven into Dad’s stories shared a lively, honest perspective. His story transported me back to a different time, providing a glimpse of his childhood. If he veneered the narrative in formal English, a bit of history would have vanished — disappeared with the humor, tone, and Dad’s authentic voice.

I remember my daughter gasping when my father retold a story about how he jewed down the price of an item at a garage sale. She exclaimed, “Grandpa, you can’t say that!”

As she explained the politically incorrectness of the expression, he shook his head and muttered, “Kids now-a-days, they are too smart for their own good.”

I admit some idioms have sorted pasts but as they have been incorporated into the English language, their meaning evolved to convey an image of a different time. If we wish to understand a different culture, examine the language. When we whitewash the language, we coverup traditions, customs, and the lifestyle of our past.

I started listening to my father, 85-years-old, astonished at his proliferated use of clichés. He didn’t understand the original use of the words nor did he care. The stories he told shared life experiences as he remembered them. Asking him to revise the vocabulary would camouflage reality. There is a thin line between political correctness and censorship when society attempts to cleanse the language. By revising the stories, we risk losing the memories.

I am going to visit Dad today and look forward to his colorful stories knowing they hold memories of a time when things may have been different while remaining focused on what is still important, family. When I leave, I expect and hope to carry words of wisdom even though they are engraved in my mind and heart.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” which leaves my options wide open.

“Don’t take any wooden nickels,” shouldn’t be a problem.

“See you soon, Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise.”