150 Cussing

A related issue at the temple was the master's habitual profanity.

His cussing.

Ruth enjoyed the calligraphy workshop the master offered at the temple. Twelve had participated, she said, most of them members of the local sangha. I'd mentioned to her more than once the master's penchant for cussing, and at the workshop, she informed me, the master had frequently employed the expletives "Shit!" and "Fuck!" and "Jesus!" and she cited two specific examples.

The master had been critical of one of his own efforts.

"If a Japanese man looked at this," the master had remarked, "he'd ask, 'What the fuck is that supposed to say?'"

Later the master had taken a student's hand in his own to guide the strokes of her pen.

"Jesus Christ!" the master had exclaimed. "Your hand is stiff!"

"He doesn't mean anything by it," Ruth told me. "That's just the way he talks."

I could have predicted this response from my wife. Such language occasionally had been an issue in the first ten years of our marriage. Then, when my wife and I quarreled, it had not been unusual for her to address me in such a fashion. Ruth would give me the finger and cuss.

She had three favorites.

"Asshole!"

"Fuck you!"

"Fuck off!"

Hey—

I was no prude.

I had begun cussing in seventh grade and my use of profanity and vulgarity had peaked when I was sixteen or seventeen and then dwindled as I aged. Yes, I still cussed—but never in serious discussion or debate and I had never used such language in my fights and quarrels with Ruth. I had sometimes wanted to—when in our fights Ruth had spoken that way to me—and the vulgar words and angry imperatives would arise in my consciousness and travel almost to the tip of my tongue.

There they would rest and wait while I thought.

Considered.

I should speak to her that way, I would think, and let her know how it feels.

Yeah!

A taste of her own medicine.

But no—

I long ago determined to stop speaking like that to people—to anyone—though alone in my private life I used such language often still to express my frustration, annoyance, and disgust. But I no longer directed it towards people. The last time I had told anyone to fuck off had been in an email to my old friend John and two years later I regretted it still. It had been ten years before that, maybe thirty, since I had said anything like that to anyone—though I had often thought it. I'd just come to believe that it degraded discourse so I avoided it.

But Ruth suffered no such compunction.

None.

Only last week she had been annoyed by something I said.

I don't remember what.

"Shut up!" she exclaimed.

Ouch.

"Do you know that in all the years we have been together I have never told you to shut up?" I asked.

"I'm not as good as you are," she replied.

Ouch.

The meaning of the flat, even tone of her remark was unmistakable—Ruth thought that I was a pious, sanctimonious prick—and just like clockwork up into my mind came the impulse to respond in kind.

But I didn't.

After all these years, I thought, why start now?

Nah.

I thought often about taboo language.

It was interesting.

One morning I arrived at Heartmind to collate some literature for the master in the office. He had set up the folding chair and the card table, laden with stacks of paper, for me to work.

He was at the computer trying to edit and format the newsletter.

Something was wrong.

"Fuck!"

I just continued with my job.

"Jesus!"

I smiled and worked.

"Fuck!"

I laughed.

The master swiveled in his chair and stood.

He turned.

He held up his hand.

The tips of his thumb and index finger almost touched.

Dramatic pause.

Then—

"It's just a cunt hair off!" the master exclaimed.

He grinned.

Whoa—

That expression seemed even to me just a little over the line.

I don't know why.

I tried to make a friendly puzzled face.

Half smile—

Half frown—

I wanted to sound both curious and tentative.

Academic.

"Gee—" I began and then paused.

He waited.

"I kind of wonder if we really ought to use that expression," I suggested.

This pissed him off.

He frowned.

"I was making an analogy!" the master exclaimed.

I nodded.

"A cunt hair is the finest hair on the human body!" he declared.

No.

I'm sure I looked incredulous.

No.

I smiled and shook my head.

No.

He scowled.

"That's a fact!" the master declared.

I laughed.

No.

I shook my head.

No.

The master sat and returned to his problem.

I smiled.

I folded paper.

Two weeks later in discussion—I forget the context—he used another expression.

It got a laugh.

"They need to grow some balls!"

I laughed.

Later I wondered.

Hmm.

The "they" included women.

I was curious.

Later in the week several of us students waited for the rolldown for Ryaku Fusatsu.

Eleanor sat on the bench.

I asked—

"Do you consider 'need to grow some balls' a sexist expression?"

Eleanor laughed.

"No."

"It's not at all offensive to you?"

"Not at all."

James heard my question.

He grinned.

"To take offense at that you have to be looking for conflict," he said.

"I agree!"

Edward walked over to the bench.

"It's nothing," he added.

I wondered.

"Maybe so," I said.

I thought.

"How about 'cunt hair'?" I inquired.

"No!" Eleanor exclaimed.

It startled me.

I smiled.

Eleanor looked aghast.

"No?"

"Absolutely not!" she said.

"No?"

"No!" Eleanor exclaimed again.

"Okay."

"That word is always out of bounds!" she said.

I looked to James.

I waited.

"I think the c-word crosses the line," he said.

I looked to Edward.

"I believe it does," he said.

He grinned.

Edward appeared amused by the conversation.

Everyone was smiling.

I laughed.

Sex—

Language—

Taboo.