Alexandra Newman

Word Count 748

“When my mother got behind the wheel of a car, she could really scare the shit out of you,” I overheard my son say at a social function once. It might have even been a family funeral. I don’t believe the body in the coffin had died in a car accident, so why he was discussing my driving habits is beyond me. 

The friend raised his eyebrows, and my son added that a couple of his friends loved that about me: “The wind in their hair, fingers gripped around the roof handle -- but most of the others would beg off at the first suggestion of carpooling.”

My daughter, who was standing in the group, piped up: “She’s not exactly mild-mannered when on terra firma, Aidan, so hardly surprising she gets so steamed up behind the wheel.”

And then there was the swearing, they said in tandem.

After the friend walked away, I sauntered over to where my kids still stood: “What was that all about? OK, it’s maybe a bad habit but at least give me credit for trying to stop –remember that sign I taped to the dashboard?”

They roll their eyes in unison: “Yeah, yeah. Stop Swearing. God can hear you and the kids are watching.” 

 It stayed there for years, the tape yellowing and the edges of the note curling.

“Nice gesture, Mom, but not effective,” my daughter said. 

“Slow drivers …” I observed, the comment dangling in the air. 

My son rolled his eyes: “Mom, admit it. You’re impatient. Passing around streetcar tracks, going into the parking lane, then glaring at the driver.”

He then reminded me of the time he was three, in the car seat of his grandparents’ car. When my father-in-law honked, Aidan yelled “Fucking idiot.” My mother-in-law wheeled around, demanded to know he heard such language. “My mother,” Aidan replied innocently. “But only to the bad drivers,” he added, after seeing the look on her face. 

I am hardly alone in this swearing thing – apparently a 2009 Swedish study found that as many as 80-90 swear words were used in any given day, a number that increases when behind the wheel. A UK Hyundai study showed people swore 41 times every 100 miles. 

I’m sure my swearing comes from feeling claustrophobic when hemmed in by other cars. I grew up with five siblings fighting for space. 

“But swearing won’t change that, Mom,” my daughter says. “Other drivers can’t hear you. But they sure can see you making all those weird hand gestures.”

I defend myself with stats: “Swearing is correlated to extraversion, and intelligence. And my swearing is nothing compared to people in other countries!” 

I told my kids about the essay David Sedaris wrote for Esquire, where he polled people of various nationalities and found a huge variety in expletives – all of them far more creative than the f-word. In the Netherlands, for example, they call offending drivers “Cholera sufferer,” or “cancer slut.” 

Austrians, on the other hand, have been known to shout,“Why don’t you find a spot on my ass that you would like to lick and lick it?” And Bulgarians, he writes, are partial to, “May you build a house from your kidney stones?” 

“Those Bulgarians don’t fool around,” Sedaris wrote. “Though no one can come close to the Romanians … with ‘I s*** in your mother’s mouth.’ And how about ‘I drag my balls across your mother’s memorial cake?’”

 I have some experience with international swearing. In my 20s, I dated an Italian waiter with a silver TransAm and a colorful vocabulary. He taught me some choice expletives, like “Non rompermi le palle,”(Don’t bust my balls) and “Outta my way, stronzo (asshole).” But try as I might, they just didn’t cut it. The expressions sounded forceful but carry about as much weight for me as some of those southern Baptist expressions like “shiitake mushroom” or “son of a biscuit eater.” 

The reason is simple. While studies have found that swearing releases anxiety, helps you tolerate physical pain and even aids in better athletic performance, it’s singularly unsatisfying when done in another language. That’s because swearing is stored in the limbic system, which is connected to our emotions. So another language can’t offer the same emotional attachment or resonance as our mother tongue. 

I cannot speak for those Bulgarians and their kidney stone houses, but I can attest to the deep satisfaction of the f-word. It can put me into a greater state of tranquility than a handful of Valium ever could.

Alex is a writer and editor living in Toronto with her Lab puppy and aging cat. The kids are well and truly launched and can now enjoy sailing, kayaking and canoeing without anxiety!