I can’t say the word “f-a-r-t.”
Done laughing yet? This is a serious matter, people! I just simply cannot say the word. I cannot bring myself to do it. It goes against every value by which I was raised.
When I still just a little girl, my grandmother began the process of transforming me into a young lady. It was ingrained in me from an early age not to smack my lips when I chew (“You don’t want to sound like a cow!”), to hold in a burp (“You don’t want to be a low-class Galitziana like your daddy, shana kindeleh”) and to speak with the primmest elocution (“You don’t want to sound vulgar like the rest of your classmates, do you Robby-bob?”).
When it came to the “f” word, my grandmother was clear and precise. “It’s un-ladylike,” she’d remind me after I’d belt out a resounding rendition of “Beans, Beans, the Musical Fruit,” at the dinner table. Then when I’d protest that my daddy taught me the song, that I thought “f-a-r-t-i-n-g” was funny (of course, I actually said it aloud back then), she would just kindly suggest we use another word or phrase other than the “f” one, which was akin to a swear word in her mind.
“Pass wind” was the most common euphemism, as well as “foofy.” (Yes, “foofy.”) My grandmother wasn’t exactly a Nazi about it, she certainly had a sense of humor and softness to her pedagogy. She just wanted me to be classy and sophisticated, and trust me, un-teaching me everything my father had indoctrinated me with since I was born was not an easy task. (Some of my father’s favorite long-running jokes include the eating of boogers and a pie made from a pumpkin someone defecated into.)
There is just something unappealing about the “f” word—It’s too much of onomatopoeia for me. Therefore, the word itself is as gross as the action. I’m not a prude, I do realize that the act is fun and silly. But much of this natural glee was obviously stamped out of me from an early age. (It wasn’t just my grandmother’s doing—I also had a very traumatic experience as a child attempting to play a Beavis and Butthead computer game in which the only action you could do with the characters was to click on them and make a puff of green air spew from their tuchases while one of them laughed maniacally.) I don’t mind holding onto some of the outdated values my grandmother instilled in me because, as cliché as it sounds, in a way it’s like holding onto a piece of her still even though she is no longer with us. But now this “f-a-r-t” has become a problem.
When it comes to matters of gaseousness, I just don’t know how to properly express myself. I usually don’t like to discuss it (PTSD from the passive aggressive psychological terrorism of my childhood, I suppose), but when it comes up, I am awkward in my articulation. Saying “flatulence” sounds very fuddy-duddy, although I continue to use it against my own better judgment. (There have been occasions where I’ve even had the urge to say “foofy.” I restrained myself, thankfully.) So what is a girl with slightly Victorian principles to do?
A few weeks ago I found myself a victim of a very unfortunate situation when someone I did not know chose to sit next to me at a panel in Fayerweather with a plateful of a foul-smelling cheese. The person proceeded to … “f”… several times throughout the two hours, wafting pungent and putrid odors under my nose until I could smell nothing else. I was offended to the utmost degree. I felt that not only my person but my femininity was being violated by this fetid, inconsiderate Philistine. I subtly attempted to hint to the offending party to cease and desist or get the hell away from me, but instead of doing either, he crossed his legs in my direction, taking full aim at my face. It was one of the most repulsive incidents of my life.
Later, when I recounted the tale to my friends, I think they laughed more at my inability to articulate the occurrence than the occurrence itself. I just couldn’t bring myself to use the vernacular. I, too, found it to be pathetic and comical that I couldn’t say the “f” word and just make my life easier, but at the same time, it brought out real pathos about this word, this horrible word, that’s been plaguing me nearly all my life. I’m harassed and harangued every where I go for this quirk. Once at a birthday party, my best friend let it slip to a group of eight-year-old boys that I had problems with the “f” word and then found myself imprisoned by a mob of them pressing their forearms to their mouths to mimic the sound. It was torturous.
Sometimes I joke that “girls don’t do that” when the subject arises. Of course, it is biologically impossible, but sometimes those who are unfamiliar with my repressed nature do not realize I am only kidding. But from there rises valid questions. How do I resolve my femininity with this “f” word? How do I remain everything my grandmother taught me to be in a culture whose humor rests on “f-a-r-t” jokes? I suppose the answer is written in the wind, my friends. (Okay, I couldn’t resist. Sue me.)
Robyn Bahr is open to suggestions about other phrases or words she could use instead of “f-a-r-t.” Or “foofy” for that matter.