My friend Rowena was instrumental in my education, when, at thetender age of five . . .

. . . she suggested I pleasantly surprise my mother bystriding up to her to say, in a clear, bright voice: "fuck-you-mommy".

Thrilled to have a mission entrusted to me by the worldly Rowena, who, as you can see,had glorious red hair and a wide and generous smile;

yours truly, beaming withpride, determination, sugar and spice, went to my mother and ceremoniously endowed herwith my new best word:

I hear a large "pop", then silence; suddenly not a sound from the motors. It seems the plane is going down and the pilot, copilot and flight engineer are making tracks all over the plane in a dither. Their pants are wet and they have totally lost control of the plane as well as their bodilyfunctions. They are frantically looking for the exits, as if their chances for survival had ended, and it was now only a matter of choosing the least painful death; inside the burning wreckage or outside in the cold airless blue yonder.

I palpably feel the descent of the plane - all of its weight seems concentrated in my own seat, and in me. My density is increasing by geometric progression, in leaps and bounds; it is overwhelming. At the same time I am shrinking and my seat is getting larger and larger. I try to tighten my seat belt but I cannot outpace the shrinkage.

"Funny", says my mind, stately couched in a center of calm in the tornado of panic, "the loss of power accelerates the speed - falling is faster than flying".

Her face became white, then red, and I was dragged off, screaming and bewildered,to the bathroom where she washed my mouth out with a sickly-sweet scented soap. Shewas so angry, she never said what was wrong, but watching bubbles emerging from mymouth and nose, I thought, while I screamed, that perhaps it had less to do with syntax thanwith something explicitly wrong with the content of what I had said.

Two main issues took precedence in my mind: Rowena's betrayal and my mother'swillingness to misunderstand my motives...... my friend had used me to her own wickedsatisfaction; and my mother had completely forgotten who

... the one who made snowhouses, paper hats and aprons;paintings of streams, trees, seeds, animals, busybumblebees and cocoons with littlecreatures inside them changing into butterflies and moths: beautiful grownups. I wasthe one who performed flinging dances while she smiled and clapped her hands.

With the foul stuff foaming in my mouth, horror seeped slowly into my system,leaving an indelible watermark wherever it settled.

My life was different thantheirs in that it wasn't amplified in real time, but in PLAY TIME, and play, asource of intense rapture, WAS NOT REAL!

I was watched not because I wasbeautiful but because I lived in my imagination which was a dangerously NOT REALPLACE.

I was not only a bother; but a bother that said"fuck-you-mommy".

"Jack, said my mother"you won't believe what she said to me today. I washed her mouth out with soapbecause I had to teach her a lesson."

So evidently, there were good words and bad words.

But why? Because Ihad never heard it before?

So then (I wondered): if a word is a new word, shouldone ask if it is good or bad before putting it to use?

I guess so.
Unless youlike to eat soap.