Teeth Prints in the Soap - Let's Talk Dirty

(Title courtesy of my sister, Vicki, who, along with myself, likes to occasionally visit the hilarious side of life)


Growing up in the deep south, seldom was a dirty word mentioned in our home by our parents or any other adult who expected to be invited back to visit our humble abode. And even less by us five girls if we knew what was good for us. Ivory soap is mild compared to the some of the stuff my Mama threatened to use to wash our mouths out for a mere utterance of a “DINGY” word, much less something considered “DIRTY“. And most of the words we considered to be passable, were, in Mama’s eyes (or ears), less than desirable for some reason. We walked a fine chalk line from our earliest years until preadolescence, and then the soap hit the fan………..well let’s be honest here, our teeth.

What is it about the years between childhood and young adulthood that make youngsters push the limits set by every parent? Some inborn trait that goads children to challenge authority at any level and damn the consequences. Tell a kid they can’t say a word or phrase, and they will use it in every possible sentence or conversation. They hear a word, new to their limited vocabulary, some deeply profound utterance, likely mumbled under their parents or some other adult’s breath, who is clearly frustrated at the trials life has hurled at them. The next thing you know, there it is….the {BAD} word….screeched out of some unsuspecting youngster’s mouth at another sibling who has royally ticked them off. Now, I ask you, how are these innocent children supposed to realize the word is bad and forbidden to be uttered in any adult’s hearing? Do they have words that are issued with a PG Rating? Words such as those ( you know the ones I mean) should come with a warning label *** Do Not Say Under Penalty of Death if Under 21*** or something similar. How many millions of children have voiced a perfectly normal sounding word, heard out of a well respected adult’s mouth, only to have the punishment of uttering that same word be devastating? My Mama’s Mother’s bad word was Banana Oil, which we didn’t known until years later was her code word, her vulgarity of choice. Life is very unfair when you have no license to make and enforce the rules of vocal etiquette enjoyed by persons of an older generation…

My Mama, to tell you the truth, was a true Southern lady, a gentle and even tempered soul, full of love and understanding for the idiosyncrasies of five girls of varying ages atempting to forgetheir way through life. She didn’t voice many bad words, seldom even raised her tone (unless we were some distance from home and then the horn of the car worked - 3 sharp beeps meant to come home NOW). The occasional “SHOOT FIRE “ or “DADBLAME” or even "DANG" was about the worst she ever allowed past her lips when we were small. Daddy, on the other hard, was less discriminating in his choice of verbal profanities, but even the ones he chose to let fly around us were heard seldom and generally mild. All in all, due probably as much to Daddy working all the time as anything else, Mama was the chief disciplinarian in our home. We got by with a lot around her, (like as not to our being such cute, lovable and adorable kids), we could cajole and plead with the best of them and usually avoid the most severe consequences of the numerous misdeeds we inevitably committed. The one thing she didn’t tolerate was foul language and the resulting punishments were swiftly administered and sometimes harsh.

Being one of the eldest two of the five sisters was both a blessing and a curse in many ways. My oldest sister was both bold as brass and imaginative in her rebellion of the moment (whichever moment it was and she had many - just pick one!), forever butting her head against whatever realm of authority was rearing it’s ugly head in her face at the moment. And unfortunately, her temper matched her stubbornness when it came to asserting her rights of passage into the world of nearly adulthoodism. Living with her was an education for me, I learned very young what could and could not be yelled back at Mama and survive unscathed. In the first place, raising one’s voice in an aggressive manner towards Mama was BAD, much less when the backtalk was peppered with expressive exclamations of dubious fame and even less auspicious origins. It quickly became obvious to me that discretion was the better part of valor in this case, that if I felt the urge to “swear” I’d best do it out of Mama’s range of hearing or pay the price. But why did it seem that Mama had radar ears, able to pick up the vibrations of choice nasty words filtering through my mind, much less to decipher the ones I dared to mumble under my breath? Maybe it was some parental mode of extrasensory perception all adults are issued along with the ordinary certificate of birth.

Over the years, I remember an assortment of punishments for the various profane remarks we were know to spew out of our lily white mouths (OH YEAH!! WE WERE SO GOOD!!!). And as we aged, the words and phrases of choice grew and diversified over the years. We even invented our own, words that were not really true words, but used in the way we used them, were meant to be replacements for the words we dare not articulate in Mama’s presence. But she knew…she always knew, and would chastise us accordingly. I can’t begin to count the times we heard…“Behave, you are a role model for your little sisters! Set a good example.” in our lifetime. So we tried.

Punishments were based on age, somewhat, in our family. The younger ones, who, having heard an older one say a word that was less that proper, after running to inform Mama of our indiscretion, would then go own to make the same mistake, usually with the same aftereffects - ergo - being tattled on. Younger sister received the standard talking to - that “You know better!” or “Don’t let me hear that come out of your mouth again!”, verbal warnings that, with any luck, would keep them on the straight and narrow. Older ones, having passed the point where warnings had must lasting effect, received harsher punishment - a fate worse than death - washing the mouth out with soap. First just threats of this dastardly consequence, and then it was eat soap or lose your teeth!

Sis and I, being older, were more of a size with Mama, although she was slim and we were more … buxom (Yes, even then!). The woman was slender as a reed, strong as an ox when angry and determined to win no matter what. (Maybe that is where I get that trait from…) When threats didn’t work and warnings were ignored, she got down to business. And when I say business, I MEAN business. She would stalk you through the house, bar of soap in hand, her mind set on the chastisement she felt we had forced her to heap upon us. And those were her words, exactly, “If you would have just hushed when I said to……none of this would be necessary. You brought this on yourself”. Locked doors were no hindrance to a determined Mama either, she was the best lock picker in the family, a trait she likely picked up out of necessity when dealing with us. Once we were face to face, it was…”Now open your mouth”. And no self respecting teenager of any renown would dare to comply with that order. What usually ensued was a wrestling match of some duration, arms and legs flying through the air, interested spectators (little sisters) vying for a prime seat to view the spectacle and enjoy the battle of wills. And somehow, and I never did figure out exactly how, Mama always was the victor in these battles. We ate soap. Spitting, sputtering, brushing our teeth until they bled, nothing will remove the taste of soap left in the mouth by a vigilante like our Mama when she was riled.

What was your personal favorite flavor of soap?? Personally I preferred Ivory.