It looked like your typical modern-day family at the grocery store. Dad was pushing the shopping cart, his son (I’d say about 10) was tagging along, and the boy’s little sister was wide-eyed, fascinated by the candy aisle.
The boy, like many kids his age, was a bundle of energy. Dad looked tired and cranky. I got an idea just how cranky when the kid asked him a question.
“Hey dad,” he said, in a tone that suggested he knew the answer, but wanted to talk about it anyway. “Is the 49ers game on Saturday?”
His dad, obviously annoyed, snapped back — loudly — “Well, it’s f—in’ SUPPOSED to be,” then added, “Who the f— knows what’ll really happen.”
That shut the kid up, and I couldn’t help but notice the girl seemed slightly less thrilled about the candy rack.
I had the same reaction I always have when I hear people talk that way around kids — especially their kids. First I think, “Did you really just say that to your child?”
And then it occurs to me that my dad is 98, and I’ve never once heard him say that word. The reverse is also true; I don’t think I could drop an f-bomb around my parents unless our collective lives somehow depended on it. There’s a level of respect there that will always be too high for me to cross, and if that makes me hopelessly old-fashioned, well, guilty as charged.
Look, as any of my friends would tell you, I’m not above dropping a few choice words into any sentence, especially if I think it’ll add some laughs to the situation. I also know plenty of great families where dropping the f-bomb is practically a time-honored tradition.
But it’s usually not done in anger. And that, as much as the use of the word itself in that situation, was what really bothered me.
So what’s going on here, anyway? Has the f-word lost its sting in public, or is it just one more example of our collective level of patience, civility and class crashing right through the bottom of the septic tank?
I suspect the latter more than the former.
I see and hear the word everywhere. It’s on t-shirts and hats, bumper-stickers and posters, and especially blaring out of speakers at every turn. It’s an in-your-face display often put on by people who demand respect — but never want to show any themselves. That attitude, right there, has just about as much to do with many of our society’s ills as anything else I can think of.
I remember a Hank Williams Jr. song that went, “In country music, you just can’t say the f-word.” His son Shelton, who goes by the moniker Hank3, used the word so freely in his music, his “Straight To Hell” album became the first in country music history to carry an obscenity warning on its label.
Again — guilty as charged of singing along with every word. But I’d never sing it around my parents.
It just feels like something very important has been lost. I remember a day when, if people my age heard younger people using such language, they’d scold them — whether it was their kid or not. Try that these days, and the chances of an ugly encounter are pretty much (pardon the expression) a f—‘en certainty.
These were the things that went through my mind as I picked up a few things at the store and walked out to my car. While there, I saw the same dad, and the same two kids, loading some things into their car. He shoved the shopping cart off to the side — ignoring the rack that was 20 feet away — and drove off.
I didn’t know the man. I don’t know what kind of a day he was having or even if that episode was a one-time occurrence. I sort of doubt it; in fact, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that his dad probably talked to him the same way. We tend to act the way we were taught.
How’s that working out for everybody these days?
Maybe we all need to try to do better. That often starts with respect and kindness in the most simple of every-day situations. It really doesn’t take any longer to be polite than to be a jerk, and who knows how your actions are going to impact other people further down the road — especially your own family?
Respect, after all, starts at home.
All too often, that’s also where it’s lost.
Are you tired of being hit with daily f-bombs? Or is this just one more case of a grumpy old man telling you to get off his lawn? You can reach editor Mike Wolcott at mwolcott@chicoer.com. To write a letter to the editor for publication, email letters@chicoer.com.