The day I accidentally swore
and paid for it in shame
It was 1987 and my friend Jodi and I had walked to my house after school. We were in sixth grade and loved the Sweet Valley High books with our whole entire beings. Who even knows which of the almost 200 books we had just finished, but we were talking about it excitedly as we left my bedroom, which was located right across the hall from my dad's office.
I adjusted my (homemade) UNITS knit separates as I pulled my door closed, chattering about the book. My hand still on the doorknob, I quoted one of the last lines in the book; a line where one of the characters exclaims, "Oh my god."
We both froze. Jodi stared at me as all the color drained from my face. I clamped both hands over my mouth and whispered through my shaking fingers, "Don't... don't tell anyone I said that."
Jodi made a criss-cross sign over her heart, promising she'd never breathe a word to anyone. No one could ever know I had taken the name of the Lord in vain, even though it was an accident.
Mormon slang is pretty well known and gets mocked sometimes in popular television or in movies. Instead of "Oh my god," we say, "Oh my gosh." Instead of "Jesus" or "Jesus Christ," we say, "Geez." Instead of "What the hell?" we say, "What the heck?" It's not "damn," it's "dang." There are a lot more substitutions and as hokey as they sound, they are very much the norm throughout the community, at least in the primary Arizona, Utah, and Idaho "Mormon corridor."
Some Mormons swear with the real words, but it's usually the more minor damns and hells (there are always exceptions, though). In my family, swearing was absolutely forbidden. I never, ever heard my dad use any slang, Mormon or otherwise, let alone any actual swear words. Dad tried very hard to stop us from saying "gosh" and "geez," but failed; they were just too common and already a part of our vocabularies.
Dad wouldn't even say "Oh!" or "Oh my!" when he stubbed a toe or accidentally hammered a thumb because it might suggest the idea of a blaspheme. As a kid, I remember him voicing a concern that if he wrote or typed the word "Hello," someone might make a copy, erase the "o," then accuse him of swearing.
He wasn't alone, either. I dated a guy in Arizona named Mark who refused to keep any journals or correspondence, certain that when he became a General Authority someday, his writings could be twisted in unholy ways.
I heard my mother say "damn it" one December when I was probably around 8 or 9 years old. She was trying to decorate the Christmas tree and was struggling with a pile of wired red ribbon bows. I'm sure my siblings and I were underfoot in unhelpful ways, making her job even harder by attempting to hang all the breakable ornaments in a cluster at the bottom.
She swore and I lost my tiny little mind. I cried for hours, terrified she would not be with us in the Celestial Kingdom. I can still remember her exasperation with me as she sat on the edge of my bed and apologized, trying hard not to roll her eyes when I tearfully implored her to repent.
I never heard her swear again.
If asked, most Mormons would probably tell you the f-word is the worst swear (I still have a hard time even typing it 🙄), but in actuality, that one probably gets said during church basketball games and after fender benders or when blowing a tire on the interstate. The worst swears are really the holy ones (God/Jesus/Lord), though "Holy crap!" is acceptable for some reason.
In my house, "Oh my god" was the absolute worst thing I could have said and my entire person burned with the shame of it.
Jodi was quick to reassure me, her arm immediately around my shoulders as we walked upstairs. "You didn't really swear; you were just quoting the book."
I shook my head wondering how to make my first voluntary appointment with the bishop in order to confess and repent; I took the ban on swearing very, very seriously.
My friend was very sweet and reassuring and by the time we had walked to her house I was feeling a lot better. She was right, it was not a premeditated swear. Cuss words weren't even a part of my vocabulary; Dad didn't allow us to watch TV or rent videos he hadn't pre-screened and I usually blacked out swears in books with a sharpie so they wouldn't get taken away. Only eleven years old and incredibly sheltered, I hadn't yet been numbed to swearing via media consumption.
Once I started Junior High, I experienced serious culture shock. All those kids! Saying all the words! I learned how to flex my inner ears in order to create a dull roar inside my head---it made it harder to hear all the colorful language in the hallways. I walked quickly past the "rockers" who not only swore, but smoked beneath the underpass, wore devil music t-shirts with scary jagged writing, and carved Van Halen initials into all the desktops.
When a boy in seventh grade told me I had a nice ass, I was horrified. I had no idea it was a compliment; I only heard the awful curse word. I ignored him and he later scrawled BITCH in big black letters in my yearbook. Shocked and hurt, I scribbled it out with pen and magic marker, tears stinging my eyes.
I was in my thirties before I realized that he'd tried to flirt with me and had felt snubbed. In a funny circle-of-life tie-in, that boy grew up and married my friend Jodi.
Throughout the seventh and eighth grades, I wore an elastic band around my wrist and gave it a hard snap any time anyone swore around me so I wouldn't absorb or use all the colorful new vocabulary. I was so shiny with earnestness, y'all, never mind the blistering wrist welts!
Unfortunately for my Sweet Valley High-loving sixth-grade self, my dad had been in his office that afternoon and heard me utter the worst of all swears. He came into my room that night before bed looking grave and serious.
I had already read my scriptures and said my prayers (begging god for forgiveness, of course); my clothes were laid out, and I was tucked under the mauve bedspread with my clock radio alarm set for seven o'clock. Weighed down by the guilt of what I had done and believing fervently that whether or not my dad had heard me he would somehow know through the whisperings of the spirit, I went rigid.
My father did not ask for clarification or allow me to explain that I'd only cursed on accident. He sat on the side of my bed and leaned over me, his hands pinning me tightly beneath the bed covers. He was calm (he is always calm), but his deep disappointment and concern for my eternal soul were, I imagined, far worse than if he had simply shouted.
In my memory, I didn't just cry, I sobbed all of my insides out as dad described the devastating gravity of the terrible sin I had committed. Taking the name of the Lord in vain had harmed my spirit in corrosive ways and would continue to eat away at me unless I softened my hardened heart and turned back to Jesus. He probably quoted scripture and the words of prophets too, but I don't remember his exact words. I do, however, remember how I felt.
I thought shame would scrape out my insides until my empty skin suit dried up and blew away like the proverbial tares that were always junking up the more holy and righteous wheat. Trapped in the bedclothes, with my father's unprecedented and concentrated attention laser focused on me, sweat glued my hair to my forehead and neck and made my limbs inside my pajamas feel miserable and sticky.
I wanted so badly to explain what had happened; how I'd been excited about the ending of the book, how I'd carefully blacked out the swear words with ink, but how easily my mind could recall dialogue and plot points and analyze hints and solve mysteries. I wanted him to understand that my brain just cataloged things on its own and the words came out accidentally. I desperately needed him to understand that I hadn't cursed on purpose so he would stop thinking and believing I was bad.
But I was crying so hard and he wouldn't stop talking.
This would become our dynamic throughout my teen years. He wanted to teach and correct and in turn, wanted me to bow my head and said "Yes, father," or, "I'm sorry, father."
The worst part was, I was willing to submit! I was the valedictorian of obedience! But I also wanted him to listen and understand when it was hard for me to sacrifice (so many!) developmentally normal milestones and experiences (he banned and forbade so many things) and I desperately wanted to explain when he misunderstood an altercation between siblings so we could get a fair trial, but he did not want explanations. He did not want to listen.
I don't know how long his 'correction' took the night of the accidental swear, but he eventually softened and sat back, releasing the bedspread trap---a trap I don't think he intended to make. He smoothed the sweaty hair from my brow and told me what I was feeling was godly sorrow. He said this feeling was a true sorrow; the kind of sorrow that gives us a broken heart and contrite spirit; it meant that god would know I was sorry and would forgive me for breaking the third commandment.
Still crying so hard I couldn't speak, I grabbed onto this lifeline. Yes, yes, godly sorrow. That's what I was feeling. All the guilt and shame and wanting to die was just that---god teaching me that I must never, ever say those words again, not even accidentally. And if my father recognized godly sorrow in me, that meant his disappointment had vanished as well. I could prove to him once more that I was a good girl.
Proving this to him would become my entire identity.
I don't remember anything else about that night. I don't remember if I got up and splashed water on my face, or if I sneaked into the kitchen after dad had gone to bed to cry about what had happened to my much more understanding and willing-to-listen mother. I don't remember falling asleep or what might have happened the next day in school, though I'm sure I told Jodi I got in trouble.
My father probably went to bed believing he had done his duty; he had trained me up in the way I should go, so I would not depart from it. (Paraphrased Proverbs 22:6).
I am still (in my mid-forties) working to reclaim my own voice by allowing myself to drop a swear here and there; it can still make my palms sweaty and my heart race.
Years after the accidental swear, I was at a small family gathering with my dad's side of the family. My aunt (one of my dad's little sisters) was eager to talk to me about whether or not I had 'daddy issues,' because she had some from her father, my paternal grandfather, who was, in many ways, my dad's blueprint. Our conversation was cut short, but the things my aunt was trying to work through came up later with my parents.
My dad waved his hands dismissively and said, "[My sister] was talking about that and grandma stopped her and said, 'Listen, [Aunt's name], we had a good life.'"
It was repeated with such finality. My aunt's problems weren't valid because my grandparents had done their best. She was not allowed to process anything or work through anything that might have hurt her or impacted her life. They had a good life. End of story.
It didn't sit well with me at the time, but I didn't yet have the language to question it, to push back and ask, "How often or how much do we need to acknowledge the good things before we're given the space to talk about the hard things? Do we ever earn that space?"
A parent myself by then, I knew we could do our absolute best and still screw up but I didn't want my children to grow up feeling like they couldn't talk to me about those screw ups. I wanted to be strong enough to hear them and hold space for them when they told me even my best intentions still caused hurt. I wanted to give them what my father could not give me: a foundation of truly unconditional love and a safe place to be fully seen and heard.
And dang damn, is it difficult sometimes, but it's healing too. My kids and I have had some great conversations about some of my (and Eric's) previous parenting choices and the ways we were able to course-correct and work together to learn and grow in healthier ways.
We can't have these important conversations if I insist they only focus on the positive and 'forgive and forget' any unintentional wrong-doing. A person can still cause harm even if their intentions were good---even if they did the best they could with the knowledge they had at the time. It's easier to move through things and 'let them go' AFTER the hurts have been seen, understood, and acknowledged in non-silencing ways.
Three decades would pass between the accidental swear and an honest conversation with my father wherein I was able to talk about the impact of his harsh, exacting manners and higher law interpretation of theology. I know he did his best. I know he was working from a place of deep trauma and couldn't see how his behaviors accidentally taught us that love had to be earned, but knowing that doesn't magically erase what I suffered or absolve him of accountability.
Though complicated by two people essentially speaking very different languages, it was still a good conversation. It wasn't a healing miracle, but it was good for my soul, because finally, he listened. ❤️🩹
Bonus pics:
Me & Jodi in seventh grade. Yes, I am wearing a pioneer style prairie dress sewn by my mother. It was purple.
Jodi's future husband. Sorry, G. I had no idea you were giving me a compliment, but I still don't appreciate the huge diss in black marker. I'm sure you've grown up since then.
xo, J