“What makes a word a bad word, dad?” asked eight-year-old Devon. Carol had left La Pistache to take our daughter Sophie to her dance rehearsal, and Devon and I were kicking a soccer ball on the terrasse.
“Words themselves aren’t really bad,” I said. “It’s the context that makes them bad.” I pinned the ball to the ground with my foot.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You have to look at the situation and what the person saying the word means when they say it. Like if you’re in England and you say, ‘give me a fag,’ it means you want a cigarette.”
“I would never ask for a cigarette.” Devon kicked the ball from underneath my foot, and flipped it into the air in one motion of his left foot. He started juggling the ball on the top of his right foot, not letting it hit the ground.
“That’s not the point,” I said. “But if you’re in Canada and use the word ‘fag,’ which I know you would never do, it’s not very nice. Same word, different meaning. You understand what it means?”
“I heard it on the bus. But I wouldn’t say it.”
“That’s good,” I said. Devon kicked the ball through my legs, ran around me and tapped it into the net. When Devon was younger, I would let him do that. Now, I can’t stop him from doing that.
I chickened out explaining to Devon what he wanted to know, why “f*ck” was a bad word. I was less shy explaining this to my French conversation partner Céline that afternoon in Aix-en-Provence. We were speaking English at the ‘Book In Bar’ bookstore and café. We had our regular table in the front section of the store. I told her that Devon was asking about bad words. She put her sirop on the table and turned to face me.
“Okay. So what is this ‘f*ck’ thing I see everywhere?” asked Céline. “I read it everywhere. Why is everyone saying it so much?”
“Ah, well, uh, you know what the verb ‘f*ck’ means, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course,” she said.
“Okay, so since ‘f*ck’ is related to the act of sex, then using it is a swear word, a bad word.” I saw two or three heads at adjoining tables turn our way.
“That doesn’t make sense. It’s just sex. Why is that bad?”
“You are so French,” I said, slowly shaking my head. “I agree, it’s not bad. But it’s not polite to say in English Canada. When I lived in Québec, you heard ‘f*ck’ on public television at 7:00 p.m. But all swear words in French Canada have nothing to do with sex, but the Catholic Church. If you want to cause a scandal in Québec, say ‘chalice’ to your boss or your grandmother.”
“That’s funny,” said Céline, smiling. “How could a word like ‘chalice’ be bad in Québec?”
“It all has to do with the rejection of organized religion in Québec; it’s a long story,” I said. “But I can tell you that I had my teachers laughing quite hard at my ‘Échelle des Gros Mots Sales.’ ”
“Your Ladder of Big Dirty Words?”
“I was doing a French immersion thing for six weeks in Chicoutimi Québec, and my class made a film for the school’s big concert at the end. My part of the film was teaching the English students how to swear in Québec. I made a cardboard ladder about as tall as me, with ten rungs, and on each rung I printed a swear word, starting with the mildest at the top, and the big one at the bottom – as you used the words while climbing down, increasingly sacrilegious, you descended closer to Hell. The joke was that on the other side of the ladder, the words were printed in reverse order, with the worst at the top. I explained that as you went up the ladder, using increasingly bad words, you improved your swearing. Like a true Québécois.” I pounded my chest with my fist the way I learned in Aix.
“What were the words?”
“Write these down,” I said. “This is the order I came up with, worst first, after talking to the lady I boarded with: câlisse, tabarnak, hestie, criss, viarge, sacrament, calvaire, tabarnouche, tabarslaque and tabarouette.”
Céline furrowed her brow. “I know what some of them mean, but some don’t mean anything in French.”
“Well, they don’t have to make sense. It’s all how they’re used. Strictly speaking, câlisse is the chalice on the alter. Tabarnak is a form of tabernacle, the little house on the alter that holds the chalice. Hestie is a form of hostie, the piece of bread which is Jesus. Criss is Christ. That one works in English. Viarge is the Virgin Mary. Sacrament is also the piece of bread. Calvaire is Calvary, the hill where Jesus died. The last three are milder forms of tabarnak, when tabarnak is a bit too much.”
“That seems crazy to me,” she said.
“Let me ask you this. What’s the worst thing you can say in France, something you would never say to your mother?”
“Putain,” said Céline, quietly, looking over her shoulder.
“That means prostitute. Why is that bad?”
“It just is,” she said. “The confusing part is that it’s okay to say ‘pute,’ which also means prostitute.”
“Ohhhhhhh,” I rolled my eyes. “I can see why you French think you’re so superior in the swearing department.”