I’m in 2nd grade, standing on the playground at Farmington Elementary School, minding my own business. Well, maybe I’m not minding my own business, but anyway, James Payton a big 3rd grader proceeds to beat the crap out of me. Whistles blow and here, loping across the playground, comes Mrs. Reid the 3rd grade teacher. Mrs. Reid is the typical vision of a 3rd grade teacher, she has her hair tied up in one of those bun things, is wearing a long, non-descript dress that goes all the way down and covers everything up, and is really old. She has to be at least 40.
She proceeds to pull us apart and then looks down at me and says in adult like fashion: “Now Alan, you know, big boys don’t cry”.
That was the day I learned to cuss. In fact I became very proficient at it, thank you very much.
OK, I get it . . . I get it . . . I get it! Big boys don’t cry. Nope, no cry babies allowed on the playground at Farmington Elementary School.
The lesson that day was crying is not an appropriate way to express your emotions. Crying equals weakness and the last thing a boy, or for sure a man wants to be labeled is weak. But for some strange reason, cussing is seen as an acceptable, and even a manly way of displaying emotions.
So I concluded that from then on, if I’m ever getting the “crap” beat out of me, I won’t cry, but instead proudly assail my opponent with a barrage of cuss words.
Everyone will see me as strong and manly and not notice the blood gushing from my nose.