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My daughter-in-law recently remarked that she swears more than she used to. It made me think about how I swear more, too. I don't just use obscenities: I express myself freely now that I'm a senior – and not just with words. I burp, pass gas and cry, in general emote and emit more, not always at my bidding.
How did this happen? Some of it, the freer speech anyway, is personal, the result of a slow build of confidence that came partly from 40 years of a happy marriage with a partner who was genuinely interested in what I thought and felt. Expressing anger at my husband with expletives was safe as well as satisfying.
Then, like everyone else, I've become desensitized to bawdy body talk. When I was young, I couldn't imagine that I would ever hear words such as "turd" (or more direct synonyms) on TV, never mind use them myself. Though not so much publicly. Being female probably has something to do with whatever reticence I have left.
Decades ago, I considered myself a liberated bride, hippie-ish, by way of the afro more than the lifestyle. The older I get, the more I see how gendered expectations have shaped my life, from career choices I've made to the vocabulary I favour. So when my two-year-old grandson swore (a toilet matter) and everyone laughed (the juxtaposition of the rude word erupting from his cherubic face was funny, I admit), in best granny mode, I warned his parents, "You're only encouraging him. Would you laugh if it was a little girl?" My daughter-in-law said, "I hope so! Why not?" The challenge gave me pause. Indeed. Why not?
Other kinds of loosening come from the normal aging of our bodies. You either already know this, or you aren't old enough yet, so I will write no more on that. But disease is different and some of us get dealt a crueler fate than others. Last year, I lost my husband following years of Alzheimer's and cancer. Though he'd always loved jokes, he rarely swore and never discussed sex in public. But in his last months, the filters on his speech disintegrated almost as fast as his memory. He began to relate stories about imagined sexual escapades, even to his children and grandchildren. A gentleman to the end, he spared them the physical details and assured them earnestly that I had given him permission for these adventures.
It wasn't him, it was me who became crude. Texting "WTF??" at each new assault on my husband's dignity and sharing gallows humour as well as sober doctors' opinions helped me and my family cope. Grief has left me out of control at times and shown me that many rules are just niceties that don't help or matter.
So by way of age and experience – and the shock of political reality after I emerged from my personal drama – I was primed for the Women's March in Toronto earlier this year. I was delighted to go with my sister, my daughter-in-law and my oldest grandson who is 25. Taking part took me back to my university days, when I helped organize an event called "Sex Fest 69," less exotic and erotic than it sounds as it was mostly about promoting contraception. In those days, I thought that control over our reproductive rights would automatically lead to equality with men. Nearly 50 years later at the March, I commiserated with the pissed-off, seasoned sisters who carried placards with the theme of "I can't believe I'm protesting this again."
But mostly the March invigorated me. The hilarious signs and banners, many too rude for traditional media coverage, made me laugh. (I loved "Think Outside My Box.") The day was mild, the crowd was happy and inclusive. I was proud to chant, "No to hate and yes to love," as we marched down University Avenue. You've seen the images: thousands of women, men, babies in strollers, little kids, couples of all sorts, many wearing pink hats. Even the dogs wore pussy hats.
There. I wrote it. Until the March, I never used the word pussy without implied quotations, and hardly ever even then. But at the March, pussy was everywhere, scrawled on the signs, in pink hats on heads, even stuffed on sticks. Yes, let's take the word back! So when we paused for a group shot, I stood by my grandson and yelled, "I'm grabbing my pussy! Take that, Trump!" In the photo, luckily, my heavy winter coat and gloves mask where my hand is pointing. My grandson looks a bit bemused. Afterward, I couldn't believe what I'd said.
I am still revitalized by the March and thinking about which issue I will focus my energy on. I described my adventure to a group of middle-aged acquaintances the other night. Likely because I am older, or possibly because their class and gender norms are tighter than mine, they responded to the story of my pussy pose with a short silence and then a burst of embarrassed laughter.
Maybe I am too uninhibited since my widowhood and the Women's March. Or maybe, all they need is a few more years of the Trump era, or more familiarity with decline, their own and loved ones'. Then they too might want to fight back with an eye-opening, efficient word such as pussy.
And if they don't, too bad. I'm braver these days. I remind myself, "I don't give a shit."
Allison Kirk-Montgomery lives in Toronto.