Bilingual

I have a problem. In one week I will be flying home for discharge. Two years of army life and in one week I leave it all behind me and return to the home of my mother and father.

The problem is my language - my manner of speaking. In true GI fashion I speak in terms with vulgarities and obscenities punctuating each sentence and phrase I utter. It is as much a part of me as eating and breathing. Whether describing a good meal, a tough work assignment, or the moon rising over the Pacific, the foul language pours out.

At School we talked rough - showing off, trying to be a man. But then we went home or entered the classroom, and reverted to more acceptable ways. But now for two years the army has been my family. We talk at a base level all the time. Everyone understands each other. I even dream with profane and obscene speech. It is as natural as combing my hair or waving good-bye.

In one week my loving family will greet their son, and what words will accidentally flow from his lips? Dad will be all right. He won’t appreciate his son’s foul mouth, but he will understand. But Mom, she will be crushed to think that her son has fallen to such a base and vulgar level.

Mother has her own standards of vocabulary. A farm girl, she spent several years teaching in a one room school, then married and raised four children. We did not say, “pregnant.” We did not say, “out of wedlock.” We did not say, “belly button.” We could say navel if it were necessary, but God help us if we snickered afterward.

That word, belly was especially offensive to her. Once while I was being rebuked for using the term, Dad intervened.

“Now that’s a perfectly acceptable word. Even the Doctor uses it to describe that part of the anatomy.”

“Not in this house it isn’t. When he becomes a Doctor, then he can use that word. Until then, he can say tummy.”

Words such as stink and guts and breasts were out. Many times innocent words such as smell or heck, if said with a glint in the eye or smile on the lips would evoke a warning glance.

For twenty-one years I didn’t have a butt. I sat on my bottom, I hurt my bottom, I scratched my bottom when it itched. A butt was a cigarette stub or a steak which we never ordered in a restaurant.
Mother was not a religious zealot. We could to dances and the movies. We could gamble with cards as long as we didn’t use real money. Social status was to be gained by example, not by demeaning your peers. Off color jokes were never told in our living room or at the table by adults while we children were around.

Dad would occasionally “hell” or “damn” and receive an instant rebuke, “Les, not in front of the children.”

So this is the family to which I will return in just seven days. Maybe I can feign that some tropical fungus had attacked my vocal cords. Maybe I can be so overcome by the joy of rejoining my family, that I am speechless. Maybe I have become so wise during my absence that I must carefully ponder all responses before I speak. Maybe Mom will see through any ruse I try, and I will be exposed. Mom is strict, but she is also caring and forgiving. Maybe she can embrace this wayward son and begin again the conditioning which will make him acceptable to her world.

Story ID:	1072
Written by:	Dick Dunlap (bio, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Musings, Essays and Such
Location:	Eniwetok Marshall Islands
Year:	1953