Bitch.
Don’t censor me.
If you do,
you are disrespecting,
my culture,
my family legacy,
our oral tradition,
and my mama.
And don’t nobody,
dis my mama’s memory.
If you did research,
you would find,
that anyone,
who is in,
my circle of trust,
says the word, “motherfucker”
at least thirty times,
a day.
There are some folks
in my circle of trust,
like my husband,
who just wasn’t brought up
with all of the cussing,
so it is simply not part
of his DNA.
But he doesn’t judge me,
and he is frightfully aware,
that I am passing on the tradition,
to our sons.
But see,
the man has respect,
for my history.
The ridiculousness of it,
often makes him laugh,
and he’ll say,
“Wow. They hear it
from their mama.
That’s gonna be your legacy to them.”
And I say,
“That’s right motherfucker! ¿Y qué?”
His only consolation,
is that our sons have passive reception
right now.
He knows the verbal production,
will surface later,
and maybe their use,
of our oral tradition,
will be appropriate then?
Once,
when a story of mine
was getting workshopped,
an older African-American woman
with a southern drawl said,
“I’m sorry. I just don’t think all
of this cussing is necessary. After the
third “motherfucker”, I just stopped reading.
I’d have more notes, but I didn’t get far.”
Point taken.
I came home
and told Pablo what she said,
and he said,
“Well. She obviously doesn’t know you
and I don’t think you’ll ever be friends.”
Another time,
in my undergrad years,
my sister from another mister,
poured her heart out, about
how much she hated my cussing.
“Can you please stop?” she asked sincerely.
Um. I don’t know? Can you please
stop breathing?
I need to cuss like I need to take a shit,
so no, I can’t stop. Sorry.
She got over it and now happily
cusses it up.
When she is pissed about something
and says, “That motherfucking bitch asshole,
who do they think they are?”
I smile inside. I
do.
